V  ^  "     ** 


OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 


SOFTLY— VERY  SOFTLY   THE  BOW  TOUCHED  THE  STKINGS- 
CUKVED-BENT. 


BY 


ANNA  CHASE  DEPPEN. 


NEW  YORK: 

J.  S.  OGILVIE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 
67  ROSE  STREET, 


COPTBIGHT,  1905,  BY 

J.  S.  OGILVIE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER.  PAGE 

I.    LECHAW  HANNA 1 

II.    THE  MIDNIGHT  REVERIE 21 

III.  THE  CRY  OF  THE  VIOLIN 31 

IV.  "I  HAVE  ALWAYS — ALWAYS  LOVED  You" 39 

V.     "BEN  WAS  THE  WITNESS" 43 

VI.    THE  COURTSHIP  OF  SILAS  SCOTT 49 

VII.    SOMETHING  Is  WRONG 58 

VIII.    ENGAGED  TO  WHOM? 69 

IX.    THE  ANNIVERSARY  DINNER 77 

X.     THE   BONFIRE 83 

XI.    THE  AFFAIR  IN  BACHELOR  QUARTERS 98 

XII.    "!F  LOYALTY  Is  TO  BE  THE  BOND". 113 

XIII.     "You  WOULD  BE  UNHAPPY  AS  MY  WIFE" 125 

XIV.    THE  GOOD  INTENTIONS  OF  THE  SCOTTS 135 

XV.  THE  PLEASURE  JAUNT  TO  FORTY-FORT  CHURCH.  .  141 

XVI.     "WE  Two  SHALL  Go  OUR  SEPARATE  WAYS" 151 

XVII.     TEDDY  R.  FIGURES  IN  A  TRADE 159 

XVIII.     THE  ASSAULT  IN  THE  HILLS 172 

XIX.     HOPE  REJUVENATES  ALLAN'S  HEART 183 

XX.     "I  HAVE  You  BOTH  IN  A  TRAP" 193 

XXI.     THE  DEAD  MAN'S  LIFE  WAS  AN  EXAMPLE 208 

XXII.     THE  STRIKE  DISCUSSED 222 

XXIII.  THE  MARRIAGE  TAKES  PLACE , .  229 

XXIV.  THE  OPPORTUNITY  FOR  REVENGE 237 

XXV.    THE  COSTUME  BALL 246 

XXVI.    "IT'LL  BE  YOUBS  SOME  DAY" 263 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

"SOFTLT,  VERY  SOFTLY,  THE  Bow  TOUCHED  THE  STRINGS — 

CURVED — BENT"   Frontispiece 

GENERAL , 36 

"THEY  AIN'T  FIT  FOB  MORE'N  BRIC-A-BRAC  IN  A  FELLER'S 

YARD"  57 

"¥E  BE  THE  MOST  THRYING  GALS  I  EVER  SEEN" 84 

"COMING  ACROSS  THE  FIELD" 122 

TIM  SHINN 136 

"RAGGED  CHILDREN  SWEET  AND  HEALTHY" 141 

FORTY-FORT  CHURCH 145 

TEDDY  R 160 

MR.  DALE  WATCHING  THE  FERRY-BOAT — DIAL  ROCK  IN 
THE  DISTANCE 228 

"A  PINK  FLOWER  IN  His  MOUTH  AND  A  STALK  OF  THE 
BLOOMS  AT  His  FEET" 237 


Our  Right  to  Love 


CHAPTER  I. 

LECHAW  HANNA. 

A  JEWEL  dropped  from  the  fingers  of  the  Infinite  in 
the  dream-hour  of  Creation — the  classic  Vale  of  Wyom- 
ing reposes  in  its  rock-ribbed  cradle  beneath  the  vast 
dome  of  mystery. 

To  the  redman  Maughwauwame  meant  simply,  big 
plains;  the  long  strip  hardly  quickening  his  imagina- 
tion, beyond  Peace  as  the  abode,  and  Delight  as  the 
hunting  ground.  And  the  earlier  settler  experienced  less 
concern  for  its  vast  prodigality,  until,  one  hundred  years 
ago,  hacking  the  bronze-green  enamel  surface — through 
sheer  love  of  vandalism,  or  mayhap,  with  questioning 
earnestness — incalculable  wealth  crowned  his  endeavor. 

The  formidable  coal  breakers  towering  many  feet  above 
green  sward,  dark  culm  hills  scintillating  in  the  sun- 
light, flames  seen  at  intervals  when  mines  are  in  opera- 
tion, suggest  practical  energy — the  wanton  pickax  now 
a  force  and  developing  a  treasure  over  which  man  con- 
tends and  the  world's  interest  is  unusually  stirred. 

Where  the  Susquehanna  and  Lackawanna  rivers  meet 
is  a  little  island  called  by  the  Shawnees  Lechaw  Hanna 

U 


12  .CUE  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

— by  the  colonizer  Lackawannock  or  Lackawanna — 
which  signifies  the  meeting  of  two  streams.  Facing  the 
island  is  Campbell's  Ledge — a  huge  petrified  animal 
crouching  with  inscrutable  face  slightly  inclined  forming 
a  natural  sun-dial,  from  which  fact,  this  mountain 
acquired  the  unusual  sobriquet — Dial  Eock. 

Campbell's  Ledge  had  a  peculiar  fascination  for  the 
Shawnees.  Grouped  at  its  base  wigwams  were  often  seen 
in  pioneer  days  and  braves  of  the  Six  Nations  smoked 
the  calumet  here,  planning  atrocities  too  horrible  to  de- 
scribe. And  the  island,  smiling  peacefully  in  its  wealth 
of  green,  hardly  awakens  the  flagitious  thought,  yet 
under  one  of  its  great  trees  repose  the  bones  of  an  In- 
dian queen,  and  many  the  arrow-head  and  tomahawk  the 
soil  has  given  forth  as  proof  and  testimony. 

The  Kentucky  girl  had  not  heard  the  history  of  the 
island  until  Jack  Euford  seized  upon  it  as  a  leader  to 
deeper  romance.  Jack  Euford  came  of  pioneer  stock. 
His  great-grandfather  had  shared  the  rude  hut  of  an 
irascible  squatter  and,  on  another  occasion,  from  the 
same  abode,  stolen  a  bride.  Valley  people,  with  the  in- 
quisitiveness  born  of  the  hills,  ferreted  out  the  story, 
sending  it  down  to  posterity  with  the  usual  embellish- 
ments. Thus,  the  simple,  original  romance  of  a  willing 
young  woman  led  gently  away  from  her  own  door  by 
a  brave  man,  during  the  absence  of  cruel  and  unreason- 
able parents,  entirely  escaped  Euford's  generation. 

It  was  a  feather  in  Euford's  cap  that  his  remote  an- 
cestor figured  in  a  chivalrous  legend — dear  to  the  early 
settler  at  a  time  when  chivalry  seemed  at  an  ebb,  owing, 
possibly,  to  the  unseemly  conduct  of  neighborly  scalp- 
lifters.  Presumably  because  on  one  occasion  the  young 
man  nearly  experienced  hairbreadth  escape  from 
heroism,  the  Valley  people  kindly  recalled  the  legend 


LECHAW    HANNA  13 

to  which  by  inherent  right  he  was  entitled  to  Lochinvar 
dauntlessness. 

"So  your  great-grandfather  was  a  gay  Lothario?" 

"That  is  not  the  story."     Jack  Ruford  was  piqued. 

"Oh;  how  may  you  vouch  for  the  contrary?"  Jack 
made  an  effort  at  explanation : 

"There  is  a  man  up  the  Valley  who  is  nearly  ninety, 
and  his  grandfather " 

"Saw  the  first  crow,"  cut  in  Maithele  Burton,  and, 
waving  her  hand  deprecatingly,  she  cried  softly :  "Pass 
the  ancient." 

But  Jack  Ruford  refused  to  proceed  until  he  had 
adjusted  the  character  of  his  early  ancestor. 

Maithele  sighed  when  the  recital  came  to  an  end,  and 
inquired : 

"I  don't  suppose  you  would  care  to  play  the  young 
man  from  'out  of  the  west  ?' '; 

"Oh,  if  the  occasion " 

"You  mean  the  girl " 

Something  in  Ruford's  face  suddenly  checked  the 
humorous  raillery,  and  her  voice  dropped  to  a  lower 
key. 

"Tell  me,"  she  pleaded,  "about  Frances  Slocum,  who 
was  stolen." 

Her  voice  coaxed,  and  Ruford  regarded  her  silently, 
while  she,  opening  a  penknife,  began  to  hack  at  a  lead 
pencil. 

He  relieved  her  embarrassment  by  the  immediate  pos- 
session of  both.  Having  sharpened  the  pencil,  he  handed 
it  over,  replacing  the  borrowed  article  where  it  belonged, 
and  began  to  whistle  softly  while  she  scribbled  hur- 
riedly in  an  elegant  Russian  leather  notebook,  which 
offence  excluded  her  from  the  great  society  of  the 
scratch-pad. 


14  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

His  tune  halted  presently,  and  he  inquired  abruptly, 
glancing  down  at  the  book : 

"Is  it  fair  to  cribbage  a  fellow's  conversation?" 

"Sure." 

"And  that  is  what  is  called  original — creative?" 

"It  depends  on  the  conversation.  It  is  generally 
called,"  she  explained  learnedly,  "utilizing  space." 

"You  are  studying  journalism?" 

"  Can't  a  girl  employ  her  time  profitably  without  seri- 
ously rendering  account?" 

He  was  silent — meditating  upon  the  ways  of  a  girl — 
when  she  jogged  his  memory  by  repeating  the 
introductory : 

"Tell  me  about  Frances  Slocum,  who  was  stolen." 

"Oh,  I  see;  you  contemplate  ancient  history,  massa- 
cre and  things  ?" 

She  nodded  and  he  got  upon  his  feet,  brandishing 
a  stick  in  the  air,  dancing  Indian  fashion,  and  giving 
the  war-whoop  at  every  new  caper. 

"Bravo!  Bravo!  Please  don't  stop;  I  shall  have  to 
describe  that." 

"See  here,"  seating  himself  again.  But  she  inter- 
rupted : 

"You  were  fine;  you  looked  like  one  of  those  sav- 
age creatures,  really." 

"I  suppose  I  always  do?" 

"When  you  try — yes.  Do  go  on,  Jack;  I  remember 
the  first  part — this  Frances  Slocum  was  stolen  by  the 
Indians  when  five  years  old." 

He  nodded : 

"That's  the  story." 

"Was  she  pretty?" 

"Well,  Frances  might  have  "been  a  pretty  baby,  but 
she  was  awfully  ugly  when  discovered  at  fifty-nine.  That 


LECHAW    HANNA  15 

was  in  1837.  Grandfather  told  me  he  saw  her.  She 
came  into  the  village  on  a  beautiful  animal" 

"Panther  or  cow  ?" 

Euford  disregarded  the  levity,  quietly  continuing: 

"She  was  accompanied  by  her  two  daughters,  taste- 
fully gowned,  Indian  fashion,  of  course.  Her  Indian 
name  was  Macon-a-quah — young  bear.  One  daughter 
was  named  Kich-Kenchequah — cut  finger;  the  young- 
est daughter — Kippenoquah — corn  tassel." 

"Lovely!"  cried  Maithele  enthusiastically.  "And 
did  she  remember  her  own  people?" 

"Only  when  the  brother  asked  if  her  middle  fin- 
ger was  crushed.  She  at  once  recalled  her  father's  shop 
and  the  accident  that  severed  the  member." 

"I  should  have  hated  the  whole  tribe  when  I  realized 
that  I  had  been  kidnapped." 

"Well,  you  see,  Maithele,  they  had  been  good  to  her, 
and  all  her  own  people  except  her  brother  were  dead." 

"I  should  hate  anybody  who  even  thought  of  kid- 
napping me." 

"Don't  worry,"  he  said,  emphatically. 

"A  man  did  try  to  steal  me  once,"  she  ventured. 

"Every  baby  gets  that  chance." 

"I  was  not  a  baby  six  years  ago." 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  he  coaxed. 

"And  you  will  do  the  savage  again?" 

They  were  sitting  on  the  long  bench  in  Hammock 
Court,  whiling  away  pleasantly  the  hour  before  the  ar- 
rival of  the  invited  guests. 

He  got  up,  walked  over  to  the  brush  that  walled  the 
Susquehanna  from  view  at  this  point,  and  hurled  the 
stick  that  a  moment  before  had  figured  in  the  dance 


16  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

into  the  thicket.     Returning  to  her  side  he  remarked, 
thoughtfully : 

"I  wouldn't  care  to  steal  a  girl  merely  to  gain  her 
hate." 

"You  are  contemplating ?" 

But  Jack  Ruford's  opportunity  passed.  The  next  mo- 
ment she  was  running  over  to  the  wall  of  brush,  listening 
intently. 

"  A-he-ee-ho !    A-he-ee-e-ho ! " 

It  was  the  call  for  the  ferry. 

And  some  one  running  down  the  bank  answered: 

"A-he-ho!    A-he-ho!" 

Maithele  Burton  peeped  forward  through  an  open- 
ing where  the  brush  had  been  thinned — possibly  for 
the  accommodation  of  the  over-inquiring.  She  gazed 
steadly  one  moment — two;  then  a  long,  deep  sigh 
escaped  her  lips,  and  she  turned  again  to  Ruf ord : 

"You  may  flirt  with  me  to-night,  Jack.  I — I — want 
to  test  a  man's  devotion. "  Having  delivered  herself,  she 
was  off  like  a  deer;  and  before  Jack  Ruford  recovered 
from  the  blow  she  appeared  again  at  an  upper  window 
of  the  house  facing  the  court.  Here  she  deliberately 
parted  the  lace  curtains  and  called  softly,  making  a 
trumpet  of  her  hands: 

"Jack!" 

Ruford  looked  up  gloomily. 

"Don't  make  love  to  me  to-night;  I've  changed  my 
mind." 

"The  devil!" 

But  the  pious  annotation  fell  short  of  the  window. 

Dorothy  Dale,  the  fair  young  mistress  of  Lechaw- 
Hanna,  and  the  devoted  friend  of  Maithele  Burton — 
the  Kentucky  girl — ward  of  Mr.  Francis  Dale,  Doro- 
thy's father,  was  adding  a  touch  of  blue  to  her  gown, 


LECHAW    HANNA  17 

her  ear  having  caught  the  merry  tinkle  of  the  ferry; 
and  she  hurried  the  last  touch  to  her  toilet  with  anxiety, 
anxious  to  meet  the  guests  who  were  landing  at  the 
river's  edge.  And  the  Kentucky  girl  glanced  a  second 
time  from  the  window  of  Dorothy  Dale's  room,  presently 
remarking : 

"Who  is  our  new  guest?  See,  Dorothy;  she  is  lean- 
ing on  Richard  Allan's  arm  coming  up  the  walk.  She 
seems  to  be  ill." 

Dorothy  moved  over  to  the  window,  nodding  ap- 
provingly : 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you;"  and  Dorothy,  resting  her  hand 
on  Maithele's  shoulder,  resumed:  "The  girl  is  an  old 
schoolmate,  Clara  Lansing.  We  were  not  in  the 
same  class — but  the  same  school.  I  hope  you 
will  like  her.  She  was  abroad  last  summer.  The 
winter  previous  she  called  once  or  twice;  you  were 
away  from  home  on  both  occasions.  You  remember  the 
cards  that  came  for  a  luncheon  the  day  we  were  leav- 
ing for  the  island?  I  expressed  our  regrets  and  nat- 
urally extended  the  usual  courtesy.  While  you  and 
Jack  Ruford  were  boating  yesterday  a  telegram  came 
— rather  an  abrupt  way  to  announce  a  visit — but,  for 
the  slight  irregularity  charge  the  etiquette  to  Dorothy 
Dale.  I  wrote  her  to  come  any  old  time,  and  verily, 
verity " 

Dorothy  hastened  below,  returning  almost  immedi- 
ately with  Clara  Lansing,  whom  she  turned  over  to 
Aunt  Helen.  Aunt  Helen's  sympathy  went  out  to  the 
young  woman,  whom  she  conveyed  at  once  to  the  cheery 
room  in  waiting,  and  leaving  the  young  lady  with  much 
solicitude  in  charge  of  the  faithful  maid,  she  hurried 
below. 

"That's    right,    Amanda."      Aunt    Helen    spoke   to 


18  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOYK 

Amanda  Brown,  a  quaint  little  person  in  widow's  weeds. 
''Make  yourself  at  home;  that  horrid  accommodation 
train  wore  you  out.  Mr.  Lawrence — delighted !  And 
Mr.  Allan  !  So  happy  to  see  yon." 

Aunt  Helen  had  given  the  best  years  of  her  life  to 
mother  Dorothy,  if  thirty  might  be  the  age  of  exquisite 
enjoyment.  When  entering  the  delightful  period  she 
had  refused  a  splendid  establishment  and  an  honored 
name,  that  a  wee  babe  might  not  suffer  from  the  un- 
timely taking  away  of  a  young  mother.  Yet  she  was 
in  all  probability  prepared  for  the  sacrifice,  owing  to  an 
early  grief. 

There  was  a  whispered  tradition  in  Dorothy's  set  that 
in  the  winter  of  '70  Aunt  Helen,  as  she  was  familiarly 
known,  had  led  the  cotillion  with  young  Van  Ransom; 
that  the  merciless  scythe  had  cut  down  the  scion  of  that 
noble  house  a  week  before  the  nuptial  day.  Be  it  as 
it  may,  "from  out  the  fullness  of  the  heart  the  lips 
speaketh"  in  no  instance  seemed  commonpla.ce  from 
Aunt  Helen,  whose  reminiscence  ever  touched  the  golden 
spot  over  which  fate  had  thrown  the  violet  pall. 

"Make  yourselves  perfectly  at  home,"  Aunt  Helen 
proceeded. 

Richard  Allan  dropped  into  a  chair  at  Dorothy's  side. 

"And  do,"  she  continued,  "just  as  you  are  accustomed 
when  at  home." 

"Mercy!"  ejaculated  Ned  Lawrence,  who  was  Doro- 
thy's devotee.  "I  would  be  shouting  to  Cousin  Susan, 
who  is  deaf." 

Aunt  Helen  arched  her  brows  slightly.  It  behooves 
the  certain  chaperon  to  maintain  the  certain  dignity : 

"When  I  was  a  girl,  and  Mr.  Yan  Ransom " 

"Yes,  Aunty,"  interrupted  Dorothy;  "but  things 
were  different  then." 


LECHAW     HAXXA  19 

"They  are  different  now,"  said  Allan;  "pardon  my 
clownish  behavior." 

Everybody  jumped  up,  and  Dorothy  laughed.  Youth 
laughs  so  easity;  a  mere  bagetelle  sets  the  merriness; 
but  Aunt  Helen  found  no  cause  for  extravagant  mirth. 
Her  inquiring  glance  fell  sharply  upon  her  niece. 
Later,  as  the  curfew  chimed  the  evening  hour,  Clara 
Lansing,  thoroughly  recuperated,  came  down  the  fanci- 
ful stairway,  trailing  a  crimson  gown.  She  was  joined 
by  Maithele  Burton,  who  introduced  herself  without 
ceremony,  and  the  two  at  once  began  the  promenade 
of  the  long  veranda,  making  conversation  out  of  the 
picturesque  surroundings,  until  Dorothy  Dale's  voice 
from  the  music-room  reached  them. 

Dorothy  felt  slightly  piqued  with  Maithele  who  had 
secluded  herself  all  noon,  leaving  the  entertaining  of 
three  gentleman,  Richard  Allan,  Ned  Lawrence  and 
Jack  Ruford,  entirely  to  herself. 

The  promenaders  paid  little  heed  to  the  voice,  and 
presently  Dorothy  called  again: 

"Maithele,  Mr.  Allan  wants  to  greet  you." 

Maithele  paused. 

"I  like  that,"  in  an  undertone  to  Clara  Lansing — 
then,  quite  audibly: 

"If  the  mountain  will  not  come  to  Mohammed " 

"The  mountain,"  laughed  Dorothy  from  within,  "re- 
mains immovable." 

But  Allan  came  forth  at  once,  extending  his  hand 
graciously,  addressing  Maithele  Burton: 

"May  a  cyclone  rend  the  mountain  in  twain  that  re- 
fuses to  go  forth  at  your  bidding." 

"Quick,  a  boutonniere,  somebody!"  cried  the  young 
lady  addressed;  "and,  people,  .bear  witness "  her 


20 

voice  growing  dramatic  through  mere  jest  and 
merriment — 

"By  yon  bright  star " 

The  man  gazed  upward.    Twilight  was  passing. 

"Or  moon,"  she  corrected. 

A  pale  disk  hung  in  the  sky. 

"I  am  Mohammed.    Mr.  Allan  declares  it." 

"Yourself,  rather,"  said  Clara  Lansing  icily;  and 
Maithele,  turning  her  eyes  upon  the  speaker,  felt  the 
chill  of  coming  events. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE  MIDNIGHT  REVEBIE. 

A  DAY  is  eventful  that  brings  with  it  a  great  joy ;  and 
of  all  joys,  the  sudden  and  unexpected  appearance  of 
one  beloved  is  not  the  least.  With  the  excitement  and 
the  meeting  the  spirit  exalts ;  then  a  finger  seems  pressed 
upon  the  pulse;  and  calm  follows  only  in  the  precious 
solitary  moments  before  the  eyes  decide  upon  forget- 
fulness. 

The  first  evening  of  the  house  party  over,  Maithele 
retired  to  the  seclusion  of  her  room. 

The  pretty  frills  of  the  white  robe  nicely  adjusted, 
and  the  long  wavy  hair  brushed  and  braided,  she  ex- 
tinguished the  light  and,  walking  over  to  the  window, 
inhaled  the  soft  June  air.  Beyond  the  green  sward  her 
eyes  rested  upon  Campbell's  Ledge,  towering  up  from 
the  Susquehanna,  a  dark  mass  outlined  in  silvery  strips 
of  moonlight. 

Her  thoughts  swift  as  wings  sped  from  the  Valley, 
traveling  those  countless  miles  that  separate  the  past 
and  present. 

She  was  a  bud  unfolding  when  Eichard  Allan  came 
into  her  life,  and  his  advent  and  passing  stirred  as  the 
new  breath  of  summer  the  unfolding  of  the  rose.  Un- 
der the  lightest  pressure  the  mind  inevitably  turns  with 
centripetal  force  to  the  florulent  days.  With  hope  of 
consolation?  Perhaps!  And  the  mind  will  sometimes 
revel  in  tender  recollections  until  evolution,  brought 

21 


22  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

about  by  sudden  action  or  alarm,  swings  the  pendulum 
back  again  into  the  present.  Memories  are  the  real 
helps  of  life.  When  the  heart  is  in  no  pressing  need 
of  consolation  they  are  a  gentle  stimulus;  and  when 
the  overburdening  is  too  great,  when  the  bitter  out- 
weighs the  sweet,  they  are  the  auxiliaries  that  stir  the 
heart  to  strength  and  action.  Gazing  into  the  soft  June 
night,  Maithele's  reverie  passes  beyond  the  Ledge. 

It  is  June,  a  warmer  June  than  the  Valley  feels,  and 
the  dark-winged  birds  have  gone  to  their  own  country, 
and  with  them — 'twas  ever  so — companions  of  a  lighter 
wing ;  but  the  bee,  the  little  brown  bee  remains,  for  the 
warmer  the  sun,  the  sweeter  the  honey.  Flowers,  trees, 
ribbon  grasses — a  beautiful,  rolling  country  !  And  be- 
yond the  park  the  fine  old  colonial  mansion  where  lived 
and  died  so  many  of  her  race.  The  house  is  white,  the 
shutters  green,  and  night  is  over  all. 

Protruding  from  the  center  wall  of  the  lower  gallery 
of  the  mansion  a  great  chandelier  juts  forth  ablaze.  The 
master  of  the  mansion  appears  in  the  doorway,  speaks  to 
the  black  sentry  pacing  to  and  fro,  gives  an  order  and, 
going  hastily  down  the  board  walk,  enters  the  carriage  in 
waiting. 

As  the  deft  turning  of  the  kaleidoscope,  the  colors 
shift.  The  event,  every  detail  of  which  she  holds  dear, 
is  over.  Her  first  appearance  before  the  footlights  is 
passed,  and  the  Prince  appeared. 

The  Prince !  And  with  the  first  deep  cry  of  the  Rubin- 
stein melody  she  has  given  him  her  heart.  But  even 
the  smile  of  a  sweet  reverie  has  its  weight;  dark  fol- 
lows brightness;  the  old  mansion  is  drenched  in  mist, 
and  long  crepe  streamers  hang  at  the  entrance  door. 
A  slight  shiver  shakes  her  frame;  she  passes  her  hand 
lightly  across  her  eyes  and  awakens  from  reverie. 


THE     MIDXIGHT     REVERIE  23 

The  past  falls  back  upon  itself;  it  is  the  present  that 
fills  her  mind  with  startling  force.  Raising  her  hand 
to  lower  the  sash,  she  catches  a  glint  of  fire. 

Some  one  smoking  in  Hammock  Court ! 

Hurriedly  withdrawing  from  the  window,  she  clasps 
her  hands  nervously,  thoroughly  aroused. 

"I  have  been  standing  there  dreaming  of  home,  for- 
getful of  all  beside,  and  the  moonlight  full  upon  me; 
and  a  man — coolly  looking  on  !" 

She  slipped  into  the  passage  and  discovered  a  window 
where  the  moonbeams  could  not  reach. 

"I  certainly  think,"  searchingly,  and  disregarding  her 
own  position,  "men  visitors  do  the  most  unseemly  things 
— prowling  around  when  they  should  be  in  bed." 

As  she  gazed  the  man  threw  the  unfinished  cigar 
to  the  ground,  put  his  foot  upon  it,  and,  leaving  the 
Court,  walked  leisurely  over  to  Bachelor  Quarters.  At 
the  door  he  paused,  sending  a  long  glance  to  a  certain 
window  that  a  moment  before  held  a  vision  in  white; 
then,  lifting  the  latch  of  the  weather-beaten  door,  he 
disappeared  within. 

"Richard!"  she  cried,  with  sudden  recognition.  But 
the  voice  died  in  the  silence,  and,  well  for  her,  reached 
not  the  man.  The  spell  was  broken;  something  stirred 
in  the  adjoining  room,  and,  like  a  frightened  mouse, 
noiselessly  she  stole  back  to  her  own  door,  flew  to  her 
couch,  and  was  soon  peacefully  sleeping. 

Soft  lights  and  a  cigar  often  bring  solace  more  help- 
ful than  the  sparkling  cup  of  utter  forgetfulness.  Allan 
indulged  in  dreams,  but  they  were  seldom  silver-bor- 
dered, as  were  Maithele  Burton's ;  on  the  contrary,  omin- 
ous clouds  floated  in  the  background  with  uncertain  per- 
spective. In  the  present  hour  he  had  come  to  a  bridge. 
Cool,  deliberate  and  calculating  in  affairs  of  the  head, 


24  OUE  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

with  no  weakness  whatsoever  or  oversusceptibility,  he 
had  nevertheless  managed  to  get  both  head  and  heart 
into  a  strange  entanglement. 

Allan  was  one  of  those  for  whom  the  world's  appella- 
ation  is  "self-made/'  Yet,  having  acquired  his  early 
training  in  a  village  school,  he  managed  by  dint  of 
hard  work  and  tireless  energy  to  pass  through  college 
and  reach  the  bar.  And  swinging  forth  a  shingle — 
there  was  little  to  back  it,  save  the  good  name  of  honest 
Mohawk  stock  that  seldom  fails  to  produce  the  gentle- 
man, and  often  enough,  as  history  exemplifies,  the 
American  brains. 

The  dark  days  that  followed  the  admission  to  practice 
at  the  bar  pursued  Allan  as  many  another,  and  resources 
came  to  an  end,  just  as  luck,  in  the  person  of  John  E. 
Lansing,  stepped  upon  the  scene. 

Mr.  Lansing  understood.  The  suit  was  won,  and  joy 
filled  the  young  man's  heart. 

John  E.  Lansing  was  a  keen,  shrewd,  practical,  non- 
sentimental  man  of  the  world.  His  great  deeds  of 
philanthropy  had  certain  attachments,  and  his  kind  ac- 
tions generally  netted  fair  returns. 

Allan  never  could  explain  how  the  intimacy  began 
between  Clara  Lansing  and  himself,  nor  could  he  pene- 
trate the  solicitousness  of  John  E.  Lansing. 

The  length  and  breadth  of  gratitude,  though  a  ter- 
ritory, has  limit;  but,  to  Eichard  Allan,  it  was  land 
without  border. 

The  deep,  self-sacrificing  spirit  which  lay  at  the  root 
of  most  of  his  troubles  brought  him  finally  to  the  bridge, 
the  crossing  of  which  would  determine  his  future, 

John  E.  Lansing's  niece  enjoyed  fair  sailing  as  a 
debutant  in  the  social  world ;  but  the  fifth  season  opened 
the  uncle's  eyes  to  the  fact  that  a  suitor  must  be  found 


THE     MIDNIGHT    REVERIE  25 

and,  for  certain  qualities,  Mr.  Richard  Allan  was  se- 
lected. 

Allan  found  dainty  pink  notes  often  enough  on  his 
desk,  and  the  runs  to  the  metropolis  proved  pleasant 
and  enjoyable. 

The  first  winter  after  his  acquaintance  with  the  Lans- 
ings he  went  south.  A  man  generally  does  something 
foolish  when,  for  the  first  time  in  life,  he  throws  care 
and  restraint  aside  and  gives  himself  a  holiday;  but 
Allan  did  nothing  foolish,  beyond  getting  to  the  end  of 
his  resources,  which  necessitated  an  early  return  to  his 
desk.  The  southward  journey  proved  sweet.  In  one 
city,  where  the  flowers  seemed  lovelier  because  love 
was  there,  and  the  world  more  beautiful  because 
joy  was  in  his  own  heart,  one  face  stirred  his  soul — a 
bud  of  an  aristocratic  tree  that  promised  unusual  de- 
velopment. 

Allan  returned  to  his  home  again,  and  the  routine, 
which  now  and  then  included  the  Lansings,  continued 
uninterrupted  for  two  years,  at  the  expiration  of  which 
term  he  found  himself  engaged  to  Clara  Lansing. 

In  the  fifth  year  of  his  business  career  Allan  became 
one  of  the  attorneys  of  a  great  railroad.  His  future 
was  assured,  and  Maithele  Burton  again  loomed  into 
his  dream. 

Although  Maithele  was  the  last  to  retire,  save  one, 
she  was  the  first  on  the  ground  the  following  morning, 
save  one. 

Possibly  the  man  and  the  cigar  occupied  her  thoughts. 
She  walked  directly  over  to  Hammock  Court,  seating 
herself  on  the  narrow  bench  under  the  linden  tree.  Her 
eyes  finding  the  half  finished  cigar,  her  foot  made  an  at- 
tempt at  annihilation  as  the  owner  of  the  castaway 
emerged  from  the  east  door  of  Bachelor  Quarters. 


26 

"Happy  stub!"  said  Allan,  fervently  regarding  his 
action. 

"I'm  glad  it's  you !"  she  murmured  as  he  seated  him- 
self. No  response ;  she  went  on :  "I  don't  suppose  you 
suffered  with  nightmare  last  night  ?" 

"My  eyes  closed  with  a  vision  in  white,"  he  responded. 
"I  dreamed  of  the  vision,  but  awakened  to  a  sad 
reality." 

"I— I  didn't  know  there  was  a  soul  about." 

Absorbed  in  the  real  vision,  he  did  not  hear  her 
remark. 

"It's  the  way  of  the  world,"  he  continued,  in  a  sort 
of  soliloquy — regarding  the  unattainable. 

"What  is  the  way  of  the  world?"  she  inquired  de- 
fiantly. "Men  prowling  around  when  they  should  be 
in  bed?" 

It  was  his  turn — consternation  visible  as  he  turned 
his  eyes  to  the  top  branches  of  the  linden. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?" 

But  ere  the  inquiry  left  his  lips  light  dawned  upon 
him.  He  looked  down,  twirling  the  locket  that  hung 
on  his  watch-chain;  a  miracle  might  divulge  his  thought. 

He  had  taken- a  girl's  face  out  of  the  locket  the  night 
before.  Not  that  he  dreaded  Maithele  Burton  seeing 
it — there  would  have  been  no  occasion.  But  because 
it  had  no  place  there,  save  as  a  compliment,  and  the 
compliment  seemed  out  of  order.  "Besides,"  as  he  said 
to  himself  the  night  previous,  justifying  his  conduct, 
"it  was  a  mistake  from  first  to  last;  it  would  be  an  in- 
justice to  Clara  Lansing  to  keep  her  picture  as  some- 
thing sacred."  He  would  find  an  excuse  that  very  day 
to  present  the  empty  case.  She  would  understand — she 
must  understand. 


THE     MIDNIGHT    REVERIE  27 

He  had  crossed  the  bridge,  and  he  would  stand  firmly 
upon  it. 

The  dew  was  on  the  grass,  and  it  seemed  to  Allan 
that  Maithele's  eyes  held  a  gleam  of  its  soft  reflection. 
And  a  soft  yellow  light  coming  through  an  opening  in 
the  deep  foliage  of  a  tree  that  towered  above  them,  fell 
upon  her  like  a  gold  halo. 

Xot  three  minutes  had  elapsed  between  her  thought- 
less speech  and  his  question ;  but  to  Maithele  it  seemed 
eternity. 

"Was  he  waiting  for  her  to  speak?  Cruel!  Had  she 
not  already  committed  herself.  Besides,  every  sensible 
thought  seemed  to  have  flown  from  her  brain. 

"Won't  you  be  seated  ?    I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

Mechanically  she  sat  down. 

And  a  new  chapter  opened  in  Allan's  life;  but  with 
the  very  first  sentence  fate  interposed. 

Euford  approached. 

"Ah,  Jack!"  she  cried,  joyfully;  "I  knew  you  would 
not  forget." 

Allan's  brow  darkened,  acknowledging  the  other's 
"good-morning,"  and  gloomily  he  watched  the  two  set 
off  toward  the  river.  He  lighted  a  cigar,  pulled  at  it 
once  or  twice,  threw  it  away;  it  had  not  the  flavor  of 
the  one  he  had  smoked  in  the  soft  light. 

Presently  his  attention  was  drawn  to  Dorothy  Dale 
and  Clara  Lansing  coming  from  the  house,  one  cam-- 
ing a  rake,  the  other  a  hoe.  Something — possibly 
their  bonnets — lent  an  air  of  rusticity,  charmingly  pic- 
turesque. The  two  went  over  to  the  garden,  falling  at 
once  to  work. 

The  man  in  Hammock  Court  silently  contemplated 
the  light  diversion,  smiling  cynically. 

Wealthy  young  women  attempting  ordinary  avocations 


28  OUK  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

always  amused  him.  He  turned  to  the  river,  searching 
for  a  skiff;  but  it  had  already  turned  the  bend,  so  he 
joined  the  fair  gardeners. 

"Taste  and  skill,"  he  accredited  Dorothy,  after  the 
usual  greeting. 

Dorothy  courtesied,  country  fashion. 

"You  didn't  do  the  original,"  he  said.  "I  fancy  there 
was  quite  a  hill  there." 

"Of  course  Pat  did  the  leveling;  but  we — that  is, 
Maithele  and  myself — planted  the  flowers ;  planting  and 
raking,  you  know,  is  the  real  gardening." 

"You  are  practical,  too,"  eying  a  delectable  vege- 
table that  grew  in  spiral  profusion  at  the  end  of  the 
little  flower  bed. 

Dorothy  flushed.  "Maithele  declares  she  knew  all 
along  they  were  bean-vines;  she  let  them  grow  as  a 
joke  on  myself.  I  thought  they  were  morning-glory 
vines." 

"Miss  Burton's  jokes  grow,"  laughed  Clara  Lansing, 
waving  her  hand  toward  the  slender  poles  exuberantly 
covered. 

"Xot  bad,"  said  the  man. 

Clara  Lansing  plucked  a  rose,  and  while  arranging  it 
on  the  lapel  of  his  coat  she  said  softly : 

"You  have  not  admired  my  bonnet." 

"Oh,  pardon.  Was  I  to  admire  it?  Well,  really,  it 
is  not  half  bad."  His  eyes  were  upon  the  river,  his 
thoughts  beyond  the  bend. 

The  rose  fell  to  the  ground,  her  foot  upon  it. 

The  little  scene  went  unnoticed  by  Dorothy,  owing 
to  the  pink  walls  of  her  sun-bonnet. 

"Talking  about  the  absent,"  spoke  Dorothy,  "did  you 
ever  hear  about  Maithele's  poultry  yard?  Oh,  it's  too 


THE     MIDXIGHT    EEVEEIE  29 

funny!"  And  she  related  at  once  the  rise  and  fall  of 
what  Pat  termed  "poulet  ambition. " 

"Miss  Burton  loves  chickens  so  much?"  queried  the 
man. 

"Loves?"  Dorothy's  face  was  a  study.  "Maithele 
loves  to  see  them  grow,  watch  them  feed,  hear  them 
cackle;  she  will  expatiate  on  the  beauty  of  the  feathered 
shanks  of  a  bantam  hen,  or  the  noble  growth  of  a  Shang- 
hai rooster,  and,  in  the  next  breath,  order  the  head  of 
one  or  the  other  chopped  off." 

"Tyrant!" 

"She  will  eat,"  continued  Dorothy,  nodding  her  in- 
dorsement to  Allan,  "that  same  little  chicken  with  a 
relish.  I  have  seen  her  do  it." 

"Cannibal!" 

Yet  he  laughed  softly. 

"Maithele  is  not  around  to  defend  herself,"  said  Aunt 
Helen,  joining  the  group,  Mrs.  Brown  and  Xed  Law- 
rence bringing  up  the  rear.  "Chickens  were  made  to 
eat,  and  we  are  not  vegetarians  up  here.  The  poultry 
experiment  was  a  failure,  but  the  child  was  not  to  blame ; 
chit-minks  and  rats  devoured  the  young  brood." 

"Spare  us,  Aunty — ravenous  appetites  and,  in  all 
probability,  chicken  for  breakfast!" 

"We  are  waiting,"  apologized  Aunt  Helen,  "for  Mai- 
thele and  Mr.  Euford." 

And  as  she  spoke  the  familiar  signal  of  approach 
caught  their  attention. 

"  A-he-ee-ho !    A-he-ee-ho ! " 

Dorothy  answered: 

"A-he-ho!    A-he-ho!" 

And  presently  silvery  notes  floated  up  from  the  river — 
the  snatch  of  a  song ;  a  long  silence  and  then  the  dip-dip 
of  an  oar. 


30  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

Aunt  Helen's  face  illumined. 

"It  is  worth  the  journey  from  the  city,"  which  pre- 
dication dignified  the  great  metropolis,  "to  hear  that 
voice." 

"Around  the  world,"  said  Allan,  softly. 

"You  have  heard  Miss  Burton  sing?"  inquired  Clara 
Lansing,  arching  her  brows.  "I  did  not  know  that  you 
knew  her." 

"I  have  known  her  since "    He  sighed. 

"Since?"  persisted  the  lady. 

"Since  I  came  to  the  use  of  reason." 

An  evil  foreboding  touched  Clara  Lansing,  an  anger 
arose  in  her  heart  against  the  man,  against  the  girl. 
Her  face  was  flushed,  which  brought  the  cendre  hair 
into  ugly  contrast,  and  Maithele's  smiling  countenance 
heightened  the  coloring,  as,  approaching  the  group,  she 
made  the  usual  civilities. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  with  metallic  emphasis  returned 
Clara  Lansing;  "we  thought  you  two  had  gone  to  the 
parsonage  across  the  stream." 

"We  did  think  about  it,"  Maithele  rejoined  nicely; 
"but  Mr.  Ruford  unromantically  suggested  breakfast." 

And  at  breakfast  Allan  found  himself  at  Dorothy's 
right.  And  presently  he  was  smiling  and  saying  bright 
things  with  a  new  joy,  for  Mr.  Dale  was  devoting  him- 
self to  Clara  Lansing,  who  seemed  pleased. 

Hope's  gathered  chips  were  kindling,  and  Allan  told 
his  bear  story,  which  produced  laughter.  But  to  Doro- 
thy it  seemed,  apart  from  the  small  joke,  hardly  worth 
rehearsing — an  exoneration  from  cannibalism  charged 
to  Maithele. 

Possibly  Clara  Lansing  thought  likewise.  Allan  ob- 
served the  sarcastic  droop  of  her  lower  lip  as  he  glanced 
her  way. 


CHAPTEE    III. 

THE   CRY  OF  THE  VIOLIN. 

ON  the  lawn  stretching  before  the  camp  the  guests 
sauntered  after  breakfast — save  Jack  Ruford,  who  was 
visiting  an  invalid  aunt  in  West  Pittston,  and  Mr. 
Dale,  who  had  Clara  Lansing  engaged  for  a  row  on  the 
river.  Allan  watched  the  two  a  moment  thoughtfully; 
then  his  eyes  fastened  upon  the  grandeur  and  pic- 
turesqueness  of  the  scene. 

A  magnificent  wreath  of  trees,  tall,  majestic,  wall  in 
the  island  from  the  river  view  to  the  right  of  the  farm, 
so  fair  and  sweet  in  its  fine  state  of  cultivation.  Be- 
yond the  wall  of  trees,  across  the  river,  to  the  rear  of 
the  camp,  a  formidable  culm  hill  lifts  into  the  scene, 
its  frowning  presence  adding  to  the  deep,  shadowy  back- 
ground. Where  the  trees  lop  off,  and  the  lawn  facing 
the  camp  ends,  the  river  meets  the  eye — a  trailing,  sil- 
very life,  lazily  flopping  green  things  that  flirt  at  its 
edge. 

As  Allan's  sight  fell  upon  strings  of  idle  cars  at 
the  base  of  CampelPs  Ledge,  the  screech  of  a  big,  black, 
serpent  thing  shot  through  the  hills.  Still  life  awak- 
ened with  the  wonderful  breath  of  energy,  and  rural 
wildness  seemed  lovelier  because  of  the  strength  and 
testimony. 

Not  many  rods  from  the  Ledge  a  castle,  looking  as 
though  it  might  have  come  all  the  way  down  from  the 

31 


3-2  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

Rhine  country  on  rollers,  touches  the  wild  scene  with 
a  merry  twinkle  at  exalted  ideas,  its  sturdy  German 
owner  having  converted  the  picturesque  pile  into  a 
brewery. 

Dorothy  and  Allan  played  tetherball,  and  presently 
a  flag  of  truce  flaunted  from  the  topmost  tower  of  the 
castle,  and  Lawrence,  sitting  on  a  bench  with  Maithele 
watching  the  players,  waved  in  recognition.  With  a 
delightful  cry  Dorothy  tossed  her  racket  into  space.  She 
had  won.  In  truth,  Allan  played  poorly,  his  mind  cen- 
tered on  the  castle  tower,  wondering  how  long  Mr.  Dale 
would  be  able  to  keep  Clara  Lansing  there. 

"Shall  we  go  for  a  drive?"  inquired  Maithele,  as  if 
divining  his  thought.  Allan  nodded  gratefully.  And 
the  girls  walked  over  to  the  house,  the  men  looking 
after  them — Lawrence  dramatically  touching  his  heart. 

"  Something  begins  to  beat  too  rapidly,"  he  said. 

"Which  one?"  inquired  Allan. 

"There  is  but  one,"  was  the  quietly  delivered  answer. 

"Heart  of  gold,"  sighed  Allan,  and  then  it  was  Ned's 
turn. 

"Which  one?" 

"There  is  but  one."  And  Allan's  eyes  closed  to  hide 
Love's  mist. 

"Have  a  cigar?" 

"Thank  you,  Ned.  Not  even  the  fumes  of  the  dulcet 
Havana  to  destroy  the  memory  of  this  morning,  which, 
like  new-born  hope,  begins  to  mount " 

"Have  a  care,"  interposed  Lawrence,  and,  reflectively: 
"Miss  Lansing  might  get  huffy.  Now,  I'm  fancy-free, 
and  I'm  going  in  to  win." 

Allan  looked  anxiously  toward  the  castle,  consulting 
his  watch. 


THE     CRY     OF    THE    VIOLIN  33 

"  Miss  Lansing  or  anybody  else,  if,  as  I  have  cause  to 
believe,  the  other  is  engaged." 

"To  whom?"  inquired  Lawrence,  with  color  mounting. 

"Find  out,"  was  Allan's  sententious  reply. 

Lawrence  got  upon  his  feet  thoroughly  irritated,  be- 
lieving that  Allan  referred  to  Dorothy.  But  Allan  had 
other  meaning ;  his  imagination,  however,  had  flown  be- 
yond the  mark.  He  meant  Maithele,  but  that  young 
lady  was  not  engaged  to  Ruf  ord. 

It  was  quite  in  the  afternoon  when  the  grays  re- 
turned, and  Clara  Lansing,  sitting  on  the  veranda, 
looked  stolid  and  bored.  Mr.  Dale  was  beside  her;  and 
it  was  Mr.  Dale — not  Clara  Lansing — who  told  the  story 
of  the  morning,  which  Maithele  mercifully  cut  short. 

"It  is  growing  late,  dad,  and" — putting  her  hand 
gently  upon  Clara  Lansing's  shoulder — "this  young  lady 
must  have  her  'forty  winks.' ': 

And  the  mirror  caught  a  lovely  reflection  two  hours 
later  as  Maithele  stood  before  it  adjusting  a  ribbon  bow. 

"Aren't  you  wearing  white?"  she  inquired  of  Dorothy. 

"You  wouldn't  care  to  have  a  rival?"  answered  the 
other. 

The  reflection  deepened  and  the  eyes  drooped  their 
long,  black  fringes. 

Yet  it  was  Ruford  that  fell  to  Maithele,  rather  put- 
ting Allan  out  of  sorts,  having  Clara  Lansing  for  crib- 
bage;  and  cribbage  is  the  game  of  boredom,  unless  one 
is  especially  fond  of  it.  Allan's  inattention  was  so 
marked  that  his  partner  called  to  Dorothy,  with  irritat- 
ing voice: 

"Aren't  we  to  have  music?" 

"Sure;  Maithele  will  play  the  violin." 

"Violin?"  Clara  Lansing  arched  her  brows.  "Then 
give  us  a  Kentucky  breakdown,  or  a  coon  melody,"  and, 


34  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

turning  to  Allan :  "If  there  is  one  thing  that  I  cannot 
abide,  it  is  a  woman  fiddling." 

"Miss  Burton  will  be  the  revelation,"  was  the  silencing 
rejoinder;  and  Maithele  passing,  Allan  broke  off  to  thank 
her. 

"Oh,  I  am  always  glad  to  play.  The  trouble  is" — 
Maithele  directed  her  words  to  Clara  Lansing — "I  am 
so  fond  of  my  violin  that  I  cannot  or  do  not  always 
discover  the  moment  my  audience  is  bored.  What  was 
it  ?  Yes,  I  remember — -a  Kentucky  breakdown  !  I  can- 
not recall  a  breakdown ;  is  there  one  ?  But  a  coon  lull- 
aby— I  do  know  the  cunningest  little  thing.  The  chorus 
goes  like  this."  She  sang  the  words  as  she  stood  be- 
fore them  with  a  graceful,  rocking  motion,  in  which  her 
head  took  part : 

"My  little  dusky  babe, 
You'd  better  go   to   sleep, 
Befo'  the  goblins  come 
And  on  you  creep. 
Hush-a-by,  ebon  chile, 
Your  mammy's  heart  do  stir 
When  you  begins  to  smile, 
You  little  chestnut  burr!" 

"That  is  cute ;  sing  the  rest  of  it,"  said  Allan. 

"No,  I  will  play  it." 

Aunt  Helen,  Mrs.  Brown,  and  Mr.  Dale  came  into 
the  room.  Clara  Lansing  moved  over  to  a  seat  beside 
Mrs.  Brown — not  for  sociability,  but  that  she  might  the 
better  obtain  a  view  of  Allan's  face  whilst  marking  the 
violinist.  And  Allan,  giving  himself  wholly  to  the  happi- 
ness the  hour  afforded,  leaned  back  in  the  chair  directly 
facing  the  piano. 


THE     CRY     OF    THE    VIOLIN  35 

Maithele  played  the  coon  lullaby  without  accompani- 
ment; selections  followed.  At  last  she  rested,  but  the 
audience  was  merciless,  clamorous.  Only  Clara  Lansing, 
with  eyes  riveted  upon  the  man  entranced,  exhibited 
favor. 

"You  certainly  must  be  tired,"  she  said.  "You  did 
very  well,  really." 

•'Thank  you,  Miss  Lansing.  I  am  not  tired,  but  I 
am  afraid  Dorothy  is;  no  one  ever  considers " 

"Now,  now;  please  let  me  enjoy  my  role,"  and  Doro- 
thy wheeled  about  on  the  piano  stool.  "Who  ever  heard 
of  praising  the  accompanist?" 

"Daughter,"  spoke  up  Mr.  Dale,  "that  is  not  fair. 
Only  a  moment  ago " 

"Yes,  dad;  you  are  always  delightful,  but  Mr. 
Lawrence " 

Lawrence  was  upon  his  feet. 

"I  was  keeping  my  bouquet  for  the  last.  Ladies,  gen- 
tlemen  "  bowing  to  the  audience. 

"If  he  is  going  to  make  a  speech,  I  certainly  will 
retire." 

"I  certainly  would,"  put  in  Clara  Lansing.  But  Mrs. 
Brown  insisted : 

"If  the  favor  is  too  great,  will  the  delightful  accom- 
panist and  the  charming  violinist  give  us  Rubinstein's 
Melody  in  F?" 

"Bravo,  Mrs.  Brown !  No  way  out  of  that.  Fish  up 
Rubinstein,"  called  Allan.  And  Lawrence  at  once  found 
the  music  and  arranged  it  on  the  piano  rack. 

The  first  time  Allan  heard  the  melody  he  had  been 
seated  conspicuously  in  the  proscenium  box  of  a  Ken- 
tucky theater,  the  occasion  being  a  pupil's  re- 
cital. His  host's  daughter,  Maithele  Burton,  whom 
he  had  not  met,  was  down  on  the  programme 


36  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

for  one  selection.  The  girl's  brother  sat  beside 
the  father  in  the  box,  and  at  his  feet  lay  a 
wonderful  bouquet  of  roses.  Allan  had  the  minutest  de- 
tail of  the  occasion  that  had  so  indelibly  impressed 
itself. 

He  recalled  that  he  merely  caught  the  glimpse  of  a 
shining  head,  because  of  a  quartette  that  performed 
directly  in  front.  Such  a  bevy  of  lovely  girls  he  had 
never  seen  before.  It  struck  him  that  all  the  beauty 
of  Kentucky  was  gathered  to  exhibit  skill  with  stringed 
instruments. 

Number  five  was  the  occasion  for  a  decided  final 
nudge  from  Brother  Tom,  and  Allan  saw  advancing 
gracefully  to  the  footlights  a  slim  girl  with  soulful  eyes 
wide  apart,  expressing  musical  genius,  artistic  tem- 
perament. 

The  white  frock  with  the  hem  just  above  the  ankles, 
exquisitely  turned,  was  simplicity  itself;  big  black  bows 
adorned  the  high-heeled  slippers,  and  a  large  black  rib- 
bon fashioned  the  shining  hair  at  the  back  of  the  head. 

As  the  selection  came  to  an  end  applause  broke  forth, 
which  did  not  cease  until  she  came  forward  again.  And 
then,  like  a  far  cry  borne  from  strains  that  angels  sing, 
the  melody  broke  upon  his  slumbering  soul,  awakening 
it  to  everlasting  memory.  And  now  he  beheld  the  same 
bonny  girl,  taller,  fairer;  the  white  gown  not  above 
the  ankles,  but  sweeping  the  floor,  a  mass  of  frou-frou 
ruffles,  and  she,  smiling  into  his  eyes  as  on  that  memor- 
able night. 

Softly,  very  softly,  the  bow  touched  the  strings — 
curved,  bent. 

She  played  with  true  artistic  feeling,  like  one  in- 
spired ;  and  Allan  could  almost  have  sworn  that  the  pas- 
sionate swell  of  the  notes  was  mezzo-contralto  whisper- 


GENERAL. 


THE     CRY    OF    THE    VIOLIN  37 

ings  of  her  own  voice.  He  marked  the  sympathy  of 
words  unsung  as  on  that  memorable  night,  and  the  qual- 
ity that  had  stirred  that  great  audience  grown  deeper 
and  richer. 

Her  eyes,  shining  mystery,  reached  him  again,  ling- 
ered, held  him,  and  something  caught  in  his  throat,  an- 
swering with  a  dumb  sob. 

The  melody  ceased. 

The  following  morning  Lawrence  and  Allan  returned 
to  their  respective  cities,  Clara  Lansing  remaining  over 
several  days — days  of  quiet  discernment  for  one  young 
woman,  days  of  decided  ennui  for  the  other.  Dorothy 
flitted  about  with  the  usual  activity  of  the  charming 
hostess,  putting  forth  her  best  efforts  to  conciliate  the 
two.  When,  at  last,  Clara  Lansing  departed,  Maithele 
acknowledged  frankly : 

"I  never  was  so  eager  to  speed  the  parting  guest." 

"You  dislike  her  so  much?"  spoke  Dorothy. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  am  annoyed  by  her  aversion  for 
myself." 

"She  shall  not  be  invited  again  if  she  finds  my  little 
sister  uninteresting."  Maithele  waved  a  kiss. 

"I  would  be  unbearable  if  I  could  not  rise  to  great- 
ness on  small  occasions.  Smiling  upon  Dorothy  her 
genius  spoke :  "I  do  not  dislike  Miss  Lansing,  I  do  not 
dislike  Miss  Jack  Tiger  because  she  purrs — purring 
is  part  of  cat  nature.  But  I  do  despise  Miss  Jack 
when  stretched  on  the  hearth-rug.  She  dozes  with  one 
eye  on  myself  and  the  other  on  the  milk — as  if  I,  not  she, 
contemplated  theft." 

Aunt  Helen  loved  Dorothy  devotedly,  but  her  fond- 
ness for  Maithele  was  marked  to  a  degree.  And,  in- 
deed, Maithele  was  the  sunbeam  in  the  house.  She 


38  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

laughed  when  the  days  were  gloomy  and  delighted  with 
the  violin  on  all  occasions. 

Maithele  and  Dorothy  had  been  friends  since  early 
childhood,  and  it  was  natural  that  Mr.  Dale  should 
assume  the  guardianship  of  his  dearest  friend's  only 
surviving  child.  Yet  Maithele  suffered  at  times,  as  fine 
natures  will  suffer  sorely  tried  by  sorrows.  There  were 
days  when  the  desire  to  fly  from  everything  seized  her, 
and  she  and  Lady  Dee  would  be  off,  with  poor  Ben 
following  on  Panther.  They  would  fly  through  the  hills 
— a  picture  that,  in  days  remote,  might  have  merited 
captivity  by  some  dreamy  Shawnee  chief.  Again,  she 
would  take  to  the  skiff,  and  while  Ben  pulled  beyond  the 
Ledge  she  would  talk  of  home  in  far  Kentucky  and  the 
friends  they  had  left  there. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"l  HAVE  ALWAYS — ALWAYS  LOVED  YOU/' 

ALLAN  had  been  a  guest  on  the  island  several  times 
since  Clara  Lansing's  visit.  City  life,  with  the  conven- 
tions so  rigidly  maintained,  slowly  produces  the  inscient 
felicity  so  readily  gained  from  country  hospitality.  A 
dozen  or  more  calls  at  the  town  house  might  not  have 
brought  about  the  entanglement  so  thoroughly  and  com- 
pletely achieved  through  one  or  two  visits  to  the  coun- 
try home. 

Thus,  with  rather  disturbed  and  quickening  thoughts, 
he  found  himself  at  a  small  dining,  and,  contrary 
to  expectations,  the  vis-a-vis  of  the  charming  person  he 
had  hoped  to  entirely  appropriate.  She  blushed,  smiled 
and  fondled  June  roses,  which  the  person  he  suddenly 
despised  had  ordered  from  the  city.  And  Dorothy  fail- 
ing to  gain  Allan's  attention,  remarked,  with  the  fasci- 
nating charm  of  the  tease : 

''You  know,  they" — meaning  Maithele  and  Euford — 
"are  engaged." 

He  had  vouchsafed  the  same  information  to  Lawrence 
two  weeks  before,  yet  did  not  consider  himself  a  tease. 

A  fearful  ardor  gets  into  the  veins  of  a  man  when  the 
being  he  loves — even  though  he  has  no  claim — bestows 
her  affection  upon  another.  Tbat  she  loved  Ruford  was 
inconceivable,  maddening;  but  that  Ruford  aspired  to 
her  affections  was  hardly  to  be  borne.  And  yet,  here  were 

39 


40  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

the  two  engaged  !  How  was  it  possible  ?  He  might  have 
won  in  time.  He  assured  himself  that  Clara  Lansing 
was  wearying  of  his  fervorless  love.  Love  !  Bah  !  He 
had  never  loved  her  at  all. 

How  minutely  every  little  detail  passed  in  his  mind ! 
He  remembered  even  that  Silas  Scott,  who  had  been  in 
his  town  on  business,  spending  his  leisure,  as  was  his 
wont,  in  his  office,  had,  only  the  day  before  the  dining, 
talked  incessantly  of  Maithele,  nearly  giving  opinions 
straight  of  men  who  allowed  certain  opportunities  to 
pass. 

However,  even  as  he  mused  Ruford  took  his  depar- 
ture. A  message  came  on  the  wire,  and  the  ladies  no 
sooner  left  the  room  than  he  hurried  away,  to  the  infinite 
relief  of  Allan. 

The  moon  is  always  delightful  in  June,  but  on  this 
particular  evening  it  flooded  the  landscape  with  weird 
allurement,  and  Allan,  finding  himself  the  companion 
of  Maithele,  ventured  into  its  influence. 

Ben's  notion  of  cheeriness — the  huge  log  on  the  big 
brass  fire-logs  in  the  music-room — rather  exceeded  his 
intention.  Even  Aunt  Helen  complained  of  suffocation, 
and  Dorothy  found  the  good  excuse  for  a  row  upon  the 
river!  But  only  six  could  be  comfortably  seated  in  the 
boat,  so  Allan  and  Maithele  loitered  behind. 

Waving  gaily  to  the  little  party,  they  walked  leisurely 
up  the  bank,  finally  arriving  at  the  ascent,  which  they 
were  slow  in  climbing ;  but  he  assisted  nicely,  the  ground 
in  places  being  uncertain.  They  were  quite  in  the  path 
before  either  spoke,  for  silence  is  sweetest  when  night  is 
meditating,  and  his  light  touch  upon  her  arm  was  the 
feeling  of  comradeship.  They  might  have  gone  on  thus 
to  the  veranda  had  not  the  lambent  satellite  suddenly 
set  forth  silvery  beams  to  mix  with  shadows  that  soft 


"I     HAVE     ALWAYS     LOVED     YOU."      41 

winds  rocked  from  tree  to  tree.  They  paused  to  admire, 
and  were  caught  in  a  snare.  Shadows  belong  to  night 
— but  the  moon's  purpose  is  ever  to  push  them  aside, 
and  the  merry  contending  is  the  rapture,  ecstasy  and 
exquisite  delight  of  the  spell  that  entices  mortal  man 
beyond  his  sterner  purpose  into  the  bosom  of  its 
dreaming. 

It  had  been  happiness  enough  to  walk  with  her,  to 
feel  her  presence!  She  spoke,  and  verily  the  soul  of 
evening  dropped  between  them  with  sheltering  wings. 

"Oh,"  she  cried  softly,  her  eyes  on  the  sprinkled  path, 
"what  is  moonlight,  anyway?" 

And  he  retorted,  with  a  low  note  stolen  from  her 
voice : 

"Search  me!" 

"Search  me !"  she  echoed. 

They  laughed  lightly.  And  then  they  arrived  at  the 
Court,  where  the  big  trees  were  scintillating  with  silvery 
beams,  and  the  shadows  were  flat  upon  the  ground.  And 
who  may  withstand  the  blandishments  of  the  White 
Eomancer  ? 

They  should  have  gone  on  to  the  veranda,  where  Aunt 
Helen  waited,  and  Mr.  Dale  was  anxious  to  talk.  But 
the  soothing  June-wind  song  was  in  the  trees;  and  it 
is  sweet  to  listen !  And  while  they  listened  the  voice 
that  speaks  in  the  dusk  whispered  things  that  became 
part  of  the  enchantment. 

He  touched  the  pretty  shawl,  drew  it  snugly  about 
her  shoulders,  and,  looking  straight  into  her  eyes,  for- 
got to  question. 

A  sort  of  rustling  in  the  bushes  attracted  both  for 
a  moment,  and  then  he  found  his  words  putting  a  riotous 
strand  of  the  golden-brown  hair  to  order. 

"Might  I?" 


43  OUK  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

But  his  kiss  had  already  lingered  upon  her  lips. 

"Might  you?"  she  whispered,  softly  nestling  to  his 
side. 

"Yes,  if  I  had  been  sooner/'  he  gave  back  with  rising 
passion. 

Her  eyes  were  wide,  questioning. 

"Before  Ruford,  I  mean." 

"Don't  tease!"  she  laughed  softly. 

"It  is  not  true !"  he  cried,  sudden  conviction  sweep- 
ing his  senses.  "Dorothy  was  jesting!  Oh,  I  knew, 
I  knew,"  holding  her  close. 

"Why,  surely  you  knew."  And  his  cheek  was  damp 
with  her  sweet  breath  as  she  chidingly  confessed : 

"And  you  believed  that  of  me?  Why,  dear !" 

with  tender  voice :  "I  have  alwa}rs — always  loved  you." 

She  reached  up  tip-toe — Allan  was  very  tall — and 
kissed  him. 


CHAPTER    V. 

BEX  WAS  THE  AVITNESS. 

MORNING  mists  hang  in  the  mountains,  gray  and  still 
as  smoke  in  a  painted  picture ;  and  over  the  lawns,  fields 
and  pastures  transparent  veils  await,  beyond  the  rising 
hour,  the  warm  fingers  of  the  sun. 

Ben  was  not  aware  of  the  rents  his  big  feet  made  in 
Morning's  spangled  gauze  as  he  strode  across  the  lawn, 
but,  stamping  his  dew-soaked  brogans,  he  entered  a 
rudely-fashioned  door,  which  creaked  as  it  opened,  dis- 
turbing the  slumbers  of  the  occupant  of  the  room. 

The  man  in  bed  stirred,  turned  uneasily  about,  sat 
bolt  upright,  and  the  shuffling  step  paused  in  the  middle 
of  the  room. 

"Have  I  overslept  ?"  asked  the  man  in  bed. 

"No,  boss;  I  jest  crept  'round  to  put  a  log  on." 

Ben  clung  with  certain  tenacity  to  the  early  form  of 
address.  His  language,  too,  was  something  remote.  He 
held  to  certain  idioms,  and  resented  corrections,  espe- 
cially when  advanced  by  the  white  help,  with  whom 
he  could  not  affiliate.  He  belonged  distinctly  to  the 
old  school. 

Putting  the  basket  on  the  floor,  he  began  to  lay  the 
fagots — he  had  a  way  of  laying  fagots  interesting  to  the 
beholder.  Striking  a  match,  he  proceeded  with  much 
puffing  and  blowing. 

43 


44 

"Hope  I  didn't  disturb  3-011,,  boss.  Young  miss  told 
me  to  give  you  special  attention." 

"To  which  of  the  young  ladies  am  I  indebted?" 

"Got  only  one  miss." 

Allan  propped  himself  on  his  elbow  and  watched  the 
progress  of  the  flame;  it  went  slowly,  and  he  mentally 
accused  Ben  of  stupidity;  yet  he  remarked,  by  way  of 
encouragement : 

"I  love  to  watch  the  building  of  a  fire." 

"Which  kind,  boss?" 

"Which  kind?" 

"Yes;  there  be  three  kinds — the  real,  the  art'ficial 
and  the  natchel.  The  first  mentioned  is  like  this — fagots 
— yes,  boss,  real -sticks  and  twigs.  You  builds  it  for  a 
purpose,  and  it  generally  answers.  The  second  named 
is  the  art'ficial,  like  you  see  in  pictures.  You  can't 
feel  it;  it  don't  give  out  no  heat,  but  it's  there.  The 
natchel  is  that  flame  in  the  heart,  starts  itself,  an'  if  it 
gets  goin'  it  'most  consumes  a  body.  If  you  keep  add- 
ing fuel,  yet  has  no  intention  to  watch  it,  there's  bound 
to  be  a  conflagration.  If  you  car'lessly  or  wantonly  lets 
it  go  out,  you  apt  to  freeze  in  your  old  age,  for  there 
ain't  much  comfort  to  be  had  out  of  dead  ashes;  and  it 
ain't  easy  to  build  up  a  natchel  fire  once  it's  died  down." 

The  man  in  bed  leaned  back,  his  hands  behind  his 
head,  musing.  He  did  not  smile  over  the  comparison ; 
he  understood  the  sentiment  set  forth,  and  it  was  the 
sentiment  that  touched  his  heart.  He  was  feeling  the 
consuming  flame. 

"There  is  in  every  heart  a  shrine,"  he  said,  with  fine 
antithesis,  communing  with  himself,  "and  before  it 
hangs  the  lamp  with  the  lighted  taper;  the  woman  one 
marries  does  not  always  occupy  the  shrine," 

"Ugh!    Bad  business !" 


BEN    WAS     THE    WITNESS  45 

The  fire  progressed  slowly,  and  silence  fell  between 
the  two.  Ben  might  have  been  turning  certain  sen- 
tences in  his  mind  with  a  view  to  effect;  Allan's  brain, 
hardly  less  active,  lived  again  the  moonlight  revelation, 
and  softer  than  birds'  singing  was  the  melody  of  words : 

"I  have  always — always  loved  you." 

Ah,  what  an  instrument  is  the  human  voice !  It  was 
her  voice,  so  full  of  quality  and  distinctive  sympathy, 
her  voice  that  from  the  first  had  slipped  into  the  deep 
corridor  of  his  heart,  that  followed  to  his  home;  that 
spurred  him  on  to  the  highest  achievements — her  voice 
that  would  be  the  undying  memory. 

Ben  had  crept  out  of  the  room;  he  appeared  again 
with  a  big  log.  The  flame  shot  gaily  up,  and  the  room 
filled  with  a  pink  glow. 

"It's  cotched  now,"  he  said,  hesitatingly. 

It  is  difficult  to  launch  a  subject  that  has  been-  care- 
fully studied  for  purpose  and  effect;  there  is,  too  often, 
the  chance  that  the  other's  penetration  will  cut  it  short. 
Ben's  education  was  deficient.  He  did  not  know  that  the 
most  disinterested  hint  could  claim  attention,  did  it 
touch,  even  in  the  most  infinitesimal  degree,  the  lady 
of  one's  heart.  Ben  began  his  story  with  a  sort  of  pre- 
liminary : 

"Yes,  I  loves  the  island;  it's  open  and  free,  like  down 
in  Kentuck.  A  body  can  move  about  and  get  air.  Can't 
do  it  in  New  York.  Can't  see  for  the  life  of  me  what 
makes  Yanks  love  to  crowd.  Down  in  Kentuck  every 
house  has  its  garden,  and  you  don't  have  to  bump  into 
hired  folks  stiff  as  Quakers  on  Sabbath  morn  every  time 
you  turn." 

"Why  did  you  leave  Kentucky?"  Allan  knew,  but 
he  wanted  to  keep  Ben  talking. 

"To  stay  near  my  young  miss." 


46  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Don't  ever  leave  her,  Ben." 

"There  ain't  nobody  big  enough  to  order  me-^vay." 

Allan  was  convinced  that  it  might  be  diffifeuK,  but 
he  made  no  comment. 

A  fanciful  red  leather  bellows  hung  at  |he/side  of 
the  mantel.  Dorothy  hung  it  there  as  an  orfaarrfent,  but 
it  served  Ben's  purpose. 

He  took  the  bellows  carefully  from  th£  na/1  and  be- 
gan to  urge  on  the  fire.  A  big  flame  was/coaied  up,  and 
the  log  crackled ;  a  puff  of  smoke  shot  tjie  w£ong  way. 

"Oh,  say,"  came  from  the  bed,  "put  th^'t  thing  up," 
Prompt  obedience  followed  on  this  occasion. 

"You're  right,  Mr.  Allan,  boss;  this  thing  is  just  a 
toy." 

"The  Dales  is  fine  people."  Ben  launched  his  sub- 
ject squarely.  "Miss  Dorothy  is  a  fine  lady,  and  her 
Aunt  Helen  is  a  fine  woman,  though,/!  must  allow,  a 
powerful  suggester.  Mr.  Dale's  a  gent'man,  fust-class; 
but  I  don't  get  on  more  'an  so-so  wilh  the  hired  folks. 
I  never  could  take  orders  from  common  white  people, 
and  I  ain't  beginning.  That's  why  I  waits  on  table,  and 
that's  why  I'm  coachman.  Why,  sakes  alive  !  Miss  Doro- 
thy was  for  having  a  reg-i-ment  up  here,  but  her  pa  stood 
'm  off.  'If  Ben  says,'  he  says,  'that  he  kin  manage,  I 
pre-fer  to  keep  Sampson' — that's  ihe  white  dude  coach- 
man— 'in  town,  and  Johii  Henry/ — that's  the  most  no 
'count  butler,  Mr.  Allan,  boss,  that  the  Lord  ever  let 
live.  Well,  I  bet  you,  Sampson  and  that  housekeeper 
has  don'  turn  that  mansion  into  a  Irish  boardin'-house 
by  this  time."  \X^ 

Ben  paused,  glancing  at  Allan,  who  lay  back  in  the 
pillows  with  eyes  closed ;  and  his  spirits  fell.  He  shoved 
his  big  foot  into  the  open  grate,  rolling  the  log,  and 
ventured : 


BEN    WAS    THE     WITNESS  47 

'They  ain't  no  angels  up  above  finer'n  Miss  Maithele. 
A  body  don't  know  how  to  talk  about  her.  She  jest  has 
ways,  an'  they  ain't  to  be  im'tated/' 

The  man  was  wide  awake. 

The  sun  mounting  with  an  arn 
Ledge,  a  happy  radiance  flooded 
Hanna.  Ben  opened  the  Window, 
and  lowered  the  sash  again. 

"I  guess  the  house  is  moving 
Allan's  coat  on  a  peg  and  bega 
brush  on  the  hat;  then,  walking 


the  Isle  of  Lechaw- 
sniffed  the  fresh  air, 


diligently  With  the 
ver  to  the  door  lead- 


ing from  Allan's  apartment,  he  pfeeped  in.  Allan  an- 
ticipated : 

"Mr.  Lawrence  went  home  lap  night  with  Mr. 
Kuford." 

"You  can't  place  no  dependency  on  the  spirits  of 
love,"  sweeping  the  air  with  his  big  l^lack  hand. 

Allan's  brows  contracted,  and  Ben  pitched  headlong 
into  the  subject : 

"I  remember  you  well,  Mr.  Allan,  boss,  when  you 
come  to  Kentuck  six  year  ago.  MisslMaithele  were  jest 
a  chile ;  but  she  thought  she  was  old  ^nough  to  be  out'n 
society — we  all  humored  her  some.  lYou  see  her  ma 
was  dead  only  about  a  year.  Don't  you  remember,  boss, 
that  awful  cold  you  had  in  your  head-v — " 

"Why,  yes — yes — of  course  I  remember,"  encour- 
agingly. 

"An'  the  lemon  juice  that  Susan  made' for  you?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  that,  too." 

"If  Calline — that  was  Susan's  gal — hadn't  of  hilt  her 
mouf  open  for  drippin',  before  the  Lord  there  wouldn't 
a  bin  that  disturbance  that  ther'  was  that  evenin'.  You 
can't  'spute  with  a  mammy  agin  her  natchel  chile.  The 
spirit  of  flame  was  contin'ally  heatin'  up  Susan.  Well, 


48  OUE  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

I  suppose  Miss  Maithele  has  don'  tole  you;  but  here's 
the  way  of  it : 

"I  walks  off  that  night,  an'  come  nigh  never  comin' 
back  on  account  of  Calline.  That  was  why  you  didn't 
see  Miss  Maithele  before  yo'  left.  Miss  Maithele  was 
givin'  it  to  Calline,  an'  I  forgot  to  tell  her  you  was  wait- 
in'  to  say  good-by,  till  you  was  gone.  Oh,  it's  bin  on 
my  conscience  all  these  years  what  I  done.  When  you 
was  gone  I  told  her  that  you  certainly  did  ask  pertic-lar 
for  her,  and  waited  and  waited.  She  turned  on  me  sud- 
den— and  mebbe  Calline  had  the  laugh  on  me,  but  she 
laid  low  with  it.  'Ben,'  said  Miss  Maithele,  'how  did 
you  dare !  An'  now  he's  gone.' 

"She  broke  down  and  cried — Lor"  how  she  did  cry; 
she  was  so  dis'pointed." 

Ben  gathered  up  the  basket  of  empty  fagots  and  dis- 
appeared, the  door  creaking  after  him,  and  Allan  leaned 
back  upon  the  pillows,  with  arms  limp  and  eyes  fastened 
upon  the  crackling  wood.  The  room  was  in  a  pink  glow ; 
he  did  not  notice — his  thoughts  hung  like  a  single  rain- 
drop on  a  thread.  He  recalled  the  dip  of  the  oar  and 
the  slight  rustle  through  the  bushes  the  night  previous 
as  he  strolled  with  Maithele.  Ben  was  the  witness ! 

Presently  through  the  glass  pane  a  stream  of  warm 
gold  filled  his  vision,  the  rain-drop  fell;  mind  and 
heart,  thoroughly  awakened,  lived  with  a  proof  stronger 
than  revelation.  She  had  always — always  loved  him. 
He  sat  bolt  upright,  brought  his  hands  forcibly  together, 
muttered  something  inaudible.  In  another  moment  he 
was  making  a  hurried  toilet.  Time  must  be  gained.  He 
was  sorry  to  hurry  away  without  a  good-by,  but  he  had 
quite  forgotten — his  note  to  Aunt  Helen  explained — a 
case  in  court  that  very  morning. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE  COURTSHIP  OF  SILAS  SCOTT. 

"ON  dad's  side  I  belong  to  the  clan  of  warfaring  in 
kilts.  On  ma's  side  Home  Rulers — preferring  the  new 
kentry  for  ruling.  Dad  was  born  in  Mohawk — Ma  in 
Philadelphy.  That's  my  pedigree." 

Dorothy  laughed  and  Maithele  joined  in.  Silas  Scott 
continued : 

"Howsomever,  I'm  not  enclin'd  to  hang  on  to  any  of 
the  branches,  an',  as  I  was  saying,  Injuns  wiped  out  the 
genuine  stock.  Ma  was  a  waif  of  good  stock  an'  stand- 
ing, thet  growed  up  wethout  a  commod'ous  eddication, 
but  with  fer-stretching  principles  thet  made  us  kids 
walk  straighter  than  the  kids  of  these  days.  In  my 
own  right,  I'm  American — tip-top,  without  any  attach- 
ments to  foreign  sod  or  any  convictions  con-trary  to 
George  Washington." 

Silas  Scott  was  a  powerfully  built  man.  His  fea- 
tures were  well-cut  and  defined,  his  face  clean-shaven, 
the  mouth  especially  generous,  displaying  in  the  hearty 
laugh,  fine  teeth.  Eyes  undecided  in  color,  expressive. 
And  the  iron-gray  hair,  which  no  one  had  ever  seen  too 
closely  cropped,  left  the  temples  bare. 

He  generally  wore  a  round  jacket,  fancy  vest,  and 
striped  trousers  turned  up  at  the  bottom.  On  occasions 
he  was  rather  elegant  in  black  cutaway,  and  in  the  sum- 
mer often  a  delight  to  behold  in  white  duck,  immaculate 
shirt  and  buff  tie. 

49 


50  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"I  never  was  a  'lady-killer',"  he  declared,  as  they 
waited  the  ferry;  "and  I  had  a  devil  of  a  time  getting 
Louisa." 

He  paused,  and  Maithele,  fearing  the  story  of  the 
courtship  might  slip,  jogged  his  memory. 

"Well,  daughter,"  he  began,  "Louisa  lived  ten  mile 
down  the  Valley,  weth  her  dad  an'  a  old  maid  aunt — 
freckled  as  a  turkey  egg  and  mean  as  pizeh.  But  Louisa 
was  above  an'  beyont  my  expectations.  I  never  did  git 
the  chanst  to  court  her  decent,  owing  to  her  aunt,  who 
was  set  aginst  me  for  reasons  never  yet  explaint,  an'  my 
own  unsociable  desposition.  I  used  to  hear  about  the 
fellers,  one  'special  red-head  chap  thet  hed  a  soft  snap 
taking  Louisa  to  dances,  and  I  spent  many  a  night  medi- 
tating on  tregiddies  that  never  took  place.  Wa'al,  I 
made  up  my  mind  thet  thet  girl  would  end  up  the  dance 
weth  me,  an'  she  did.  I  use'  to  spend  half  on  every 
second  Saturday  watching  the  hired  boy  curry  the  hoss 
an'  help  me  spruce  to  go  courting.  And  it's  a  solemn 
fact  that  I  was  rejected  over  one  hundred  times.  I  can 
prove  it  by  Louisa;  she  claims  to  thes  day  I  didn't  go 
'bout  it  right.  Wa'al,  mebbe  I  did  an'  mebbe  I  didn't: 
But  I  use'  to  sidle  up  to  her  door  every  second  Saturday, 
and  there  me  an'  the  hoss  would  stand.  Presently  I'd 
call  out :  'Louisa !  Oh,  Louisa !'  An'  in  about  a  minute 
the  puttiest  head  would  pop  out  of  the  setting-room 
window." 

Scott  paused  to  smile  with  fond  recollection  and  pro- 
ceeded : 

"An'  it  would  seem  to  me  as  if  all  the  soft  notes  of 
forest  birds  would  get  into  her  throat  when  she'd  an- 
swer back :  'Here  I  am,  Silas !'  Then  I'd  steady  myself 
so'st  to  git  my  voice  real  firm,  an'  I'd  enquire,  with  a 
hum  an'  haw,  'How'dy,  Louisa?'  And  she'd  answer 


COURTSHIP     OF    SILAS    SCOTT          51 

back,  'How'dy,  Si !'  Then  I'd  ast,  shyer'n  a  kite,  'Air 
you  well?'  'Fine/  she'd  call  back.  I  alvvus  felt  as  if 
I  hed  got  through  the  fust  of  the  pufformance  when  thet 
was  through,  an'  I'd  take  a  long  breath.  Then,  after 
about  four  minutes  waiting  for  my  heart  to  stop  beating, 
I'd  git  courage  to  look  straight  into  her  eyes — which 
wa'  alwus  twinkling  like  stars — an'  I'd  say,  bracing  up, 
'Louisa,  will  }rou  hev  me?'  'No,  I  won't,'  she'd  say — 
an'  slam-bang  would  go  the  window.  No  use  hanging 
around  after  thet,  an'  I'd  jest  tetch  old  sorrel  weth  the 
switch  an'  home  we'd  go." 

"But,"  inquired  Dorothy,  hearing  the  story  for  the 
first  time,  "did  you  never  go  inside  the  house?  Did 
you  always  sit  upon  that  old  sorrel  horse  and  court 
Louisa — I  mean,  Mrs.  Scott?" 

"I  went  inside  only  onct;  I  guess  thet  was  the  hun- 
dre'th  time — an?  I  got  her." 

"Well,"  said  Maithele,  "I  should  never  treat  the  man 
I  loved  like  that." 

"  Xow,  daughter,  don't  be  too  swift ;  it's  real  nettling, 

I  admit,  to  be  kept  dangling  by  a  hair,  but "  His 

attention  was  at  once  called  to  Lady  Dee,  who,  as  usual, 
showed  her  disapproval  of  ferry-boats  by  capers  becoming 
to  herself,  but  most  perilous  to  the  fair  equestrian,  who 
stubbornly  refused  to  dismount.  The  landing  was  ef- 
fected, however,  without  disaster,  and  Scott,  assisting 
Maithele,  whispered  softly : 

"We  ain't  seen  you  at  our  place  for  a  spell." 

"So  many  guests "  she  apologized. 

"Louisa  wants  to  see  you  about  suthen  perticler.  If 
you  hevn't  any  engagement  for  to-morrow,  an*  if  it's 
convenient?" 

Thus  the  following  morning  Maithele  set  forth.  The 
air  was  sweet  with  odoriferous  blooms;  the  birds  were 


53  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

singing,  and  the  sun,  like  a  great  coreopsis,  adorning  the 
vale.  At  every  turn  of  the  winding  road  the  green  hills 
sloped,  and  the  Susquehanna  coming  into  view  broadly, 
clearly,  permitted  gentle  discernment  into  its  seemingly 
thoughtless  but  ever  intelligent  cause. 

Ben  had  tried  to  be  jocose  as  they  set  out,  but,  with 
ready  intuition,  he  recognized  the  inopportune  moment, 
and  fell  back  a  few  yards  from  his  charge. 

So  many  guests  had  come  and  gone  since  the  day 
of  the  dining  that  Maithele  hardly  found  lesiure  to  re- 
flect upon  her  own  tragedy,  for  so  it  seemed. 

Sincerity  is  not  to  be  doubted;  there  is  once  in  every 
life  when  truth  stands  revealed.  But  even  so,  Love,  in- 
tuitive in  its  perceptions,  finds  the  speck,  infinitesimal 
though  it  be,  upon  the  horizon.  The  speck  acquired  pro- 
portions as  Maithele  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  peaked  beauty 
of  the  hills  and  rehearsed  the  story.  There  had  always 
been  something,  she  reflected.  She  recalled  the  first 
meeting  in  the  Dale's  home — how  warmly  Allan's  hands 
clasped  hers — as  their  eyes  met,  then  the  turning  away — 
it  was  ever  so.  During  the  first  winter  she  had 
seen  him  but  twice ;  the  whole  of  the  second 
year  she  was  abroad.  He  had  written  one  let- 
ter; she  had  it  yet;  she  recalled  everything  so 
minutely,  even  the  joy  of  returning  to  America, 
which,  in  her  secret  heart,  meant  meeting  Richard  Allan 
once  more.  But  they  were  six  months  returned  before 
he  put  in  an  appearance.  Then  she  noted  a  strange  thing 
— his  eyes  with  all  their  depth  followed  her;  yet  it  was 
Dorothy  who  claimed  all  his  attention.  She  was  prepared 
for  the  declaration  in  the  soft  moonlight,  but  not  for 
the  silence  that  followed.  She  recalled  how  he  had  gone 
off  the  following  day  like  one  under  a  cloud.  Even  the 
mail — love's  white-winged  messenger — eluded  her. 


COURTSHIP    OF     SILAS    SCOTT          53 

"Oh,  you  silly!"  she  cried  out.  A  striped  squirrel 
shooting  across  the  road,  frightened  Lady  Dee,  and  the 
reverie,  broken  at  this  point,  gathered  thread  again,  but 
of  darker  weaving. 

"Could  it  be  possible?"  she  murmured,  suspicion  fas- 
tening upon  her  mind.  She  recalled  many  occasions,  the 
costume  ball  the  season  passed,  how  he  had  shadowed 
Dorothy,  a  beautiful  Carmen  to  the  end  of  the  evening, 
while  she  danced,  danced,  danced — with  men  she  hated. 
And  how  Dorothy  "had  talked  for  a  week  of  Richard, 
Richard,  until  her  jealous  heart  cried  aloud. 

Thus  she  came  to  the  turn  in  the  road,  and  the 
mare's  speed  slackened  going  down  to  the  river's 
edge.  The  reeds  were  high,  green  and  soft  as  velvet, 
and  as  she  gazed  upon  them,  a  new  sensation  fraught 
with  certain  pain  crept  into  her  heart.  Almost  as  high 
as  the  reeds  a  wild  growth,  dotted  all  over  with  flowers 
looking  like  little  pink  shells,  attractively  won  her. 
Swinging  her  arm  forward,  she  gathered  a  handful  of  the 
pretty  things,  but  the  flowers  were  viscous  and  their 
odor  offensive. 

"Bah  !"  she  cried,  opening  her  palm,  "to  look  so  beau- 
tiful and  be  so  bad."  And  the  wind  picked  the  flowers 
up  and  tossed  them  out  upon  the  stream,  and — away  they 
sped. 

The  onward  course  of  the  river,  the  flower  that 
she  threw  upon  it,  filled  her  eyes,  or  was  it  something  be- 
sides ?  The  aqueous  mist,  perhaps,  welling  up  from  the 
river  of  her  own  heart  ? 

"Richard!  Richard!"  she  cried  almost  under  her 
breath;  then,  gently  touching  Lady  Dee,  up  the  green 
slope  into  the  road,  on  she  sped,  distancing  Panther  a 
full  half  mile ;  at  last  she  slackened  pace  and  Ben  came 
jogging  up. 


54  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"For  the  Lord  sake,  Miss  Maithele,  Panther  an'  me 
certainly  am  done  up." 

"I  had  no  idea,  Ben,  you  were  so  far  behind." 

"Indeed,  honey,"  he  answered,  with  the  familiarity  he 
often  assumed,  "then  you  haven't  ideas  this  morning. 
'Behind  ?'  Well,  I  think  we  was !  Now,  honey,  don't  you 
do  that  no  more !  We  certainly  was  out  of  sight,  and 
Panther  is  don'  up." 

"I'm  sorry,  Ben.  I  forgot  the  youth  of  Lady  Dee 
when  I  let  her  go." 

"You  certainly  did,  Miss  Maithele,  honey." 

"Now  Ben,  the  house  is  in  sight.  Call  for  me  about 
dusk." 

With  a  smile  she  was  off  on  a  light  canter,  but  Ben 
walked  to  the  side  of  the  road,  and  his  eyes  followed  the 
frivolous  Lady  Dee  until  he  saw  her  stop  before  the  house 
of  Silas  Scott. 

"Thank  Gawd !"  he  piously  ejaculated,  as  he  mounted 
Panther  again,  turning  his  face  southward. 

"That  chile  and  that  mare  is  too  much  for  me.  I'm 
getting  old,  I  sho'ly  am." 

Silas  Scott  was  seated  at  his  door,  deep  in  the  morn- 
ing paper,  as  Maithele  drew  rein. 

"Here  she  is,  Louisa,  here  she  is,"  he  called.  But  the 
lady  had  sighted  the  arrival. 

"Silas!"  (from  within)  "Go  help  that  child.  Lor', 
she's  jumped," 

"Ye  going  to  git  kilt  some  day,"  said  Silas,  greeting 
her  warmly.  "I  don't  like  that  mare,  no  how;  there's 
difference  between  a  prankish  hoss  an'  a  prankish  dog." 

Running  to  the  house  she  was  met  by  Louisa,  hands 
uplifted. 

"Can't  tetch  you,  dearie.  Our  hired  girl  can't  make 
pie-crus'  to  suit  thet  husband  of  mine.  Take  warning, 


COURTSHIP     OF    SILAS     SCOTT          55 

take  warning,  child.  Don't  begin  cooking  when  you 
marry ;  a  man  may  be  consid'rate  in  every  other  respect, 
but  if  you  cook  to  suit  him  then  nobody  else  can  long  as 
you  be  wethin  call."  She  said  all  this  in  a  breath,  and 
Maithele  laughing  kissing  her  cheek. 

Meanwhile,  Silas  was  trying  to  lead  Lady  Dee  around 
to  the  stable.  The  mare  coquetting,  Silas  misunder- 
stood. 

"Con'soun'  ye,  I'll "  What  he  would  have  done 

will  never  be  recorded,  for  at  that  moment  he  caught 
sight  of  Louisa  and  Maithele  through  the  kitchen 
window. 

"If  I  could  keep  them  two,"  he  said  softly,  "alwus  to- 
gether, I'm  'feared  I  wouldn't  be  hank'ring  for  Perra- 
dise,"  at  which  pious  reflection  Lady  Dee  jerked,  show- 
ing her  aversion  to  dogs. 

"Come  along,  don't  put  on,"  he  continued.  "Thet 
pup's  jest  the  Scout  of  the  army.  Ted  is  the  natural  born 
ag'ressive.  Ye  ain't  met  him  yet.  Come,  come,  pull 
into  the  stable  like  a  lady;  ye'll  fine  oats  to  your  taste." 

But  the  Scout  had  given  the  alarm,  and  the  air  was 
full  of  yelping.  Lady  Dee  held  back,  and  Silas  tugged 
at  the  bridle. 

"Con'soun  ye,  I'll  larrup  your  flanks." 

A  farm  hand,  observing  the  trouble,  came  to  Scott's 
assistance,  but  the  fellow  grabbed  at  the  mare's  tail,  for- 
tunately failing  to  get  the  coveted  ribbon. 

"  Mighty  powers !  Ain't  you  got  'nough  sense  to  know 
hoss  tail  from  dog  tail?"  yelled  Scott. 

Instantly  the  animal  lifted  her  hind  legs  and  the  hired 
man  vanished;  the  dogs,  too,  held  back  cautiously,  save 
Teddy  E.,  who  sprang  upon  the  mare's  back,  biting  at 
the  bridle. 

"For  the  Lord !"  exclaimed  Louisa,  hanging  out  of  the 


56  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

kitchen  window,  "if  Ted  ain't  doin'  the  rough-rider!" 

Lady  Dee  pricked  her  ears ;  her  mistress  was  running 
down  the  path. 

Maithele  arrived  upon  the  scene,  and  at  once  pro- 
ceeded to  pat  the  mare's  head. 

"Sweet  Lady  Dee — good  girl!"1 

The  animal  whinnied,  clawing  the  ground  with  her 
fore  hoof,  and  Ted  jumped  off. 

Maithele  opened  the  palm  of  her  hand,  and  the  mare 
found  the  lump  of  sugar  which  she  crunched,  following 
like  a  lamb  to  the  stable,  rubbing  her  nose  at  every 
pause  against  Maithele's  sleeve.  And  as  they  arrived 
at  the  stable  door  a  voice  called  from  the  house. 

A  livery  stable  horse  was  at  the  gate. 

"Wa'al  I'll  swan,"  Scott  declared,  going  toward  the 
house.  "I'll  set  her  up  agin  any  other  girl  of  her  size 
in  the  kentry. 

The  Scott  house  stood  back  some  fifty  feet  from  the 
avenue.  It  was  a  frame  structure,  with  solid  brick 
foundation — a  style  of  architecture  that  combined  the 
old  with  the  new.  The  color  of  the  house  was  light 
gray,  the  gables  deep  red. 

"I  dunno  as  I  like  it  much,"  said  Scott,  the  first  time 
Maithele  mentioned  the  effect,  "but  the  feller  thet  put 
on  the  paint  has  a  repitation  for  style,  so  I  says,  'If  ye  say 
so,  it  goes.'  Any  way  the  red  tetches  do  match  the 
chimbleys." 

The  Scott  farm  was  not  extensive;  in  fact,  Scott 
was  not  very  fond  of  farming. 

"We  keeps,"  he  would  say,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
"most  of  the  land  for  the  benefit  of  the  dogs."    He  did 
not  traffic  in  dogs,  though  he  would  travel  miles  to  bar-- 
gain  for  a  dog  he  had  set  his  mind  on ;  and  the  only  de- 
ception he  ever  practiced  on  Louisa  was  the  fabulous 


a  ~ 
SQ-. 

S?  pj 

"w  "^ 
«  x 

—     '/- 


COURTSHIP    OF    SILAS     SCOTT          57 

prices  paid  for  some  of  the  canines.  Dogs  were 
his  one  extravagance. 

He  eased  his  conscience  by  repeating  to  himself  on 
occasions:  "What  she  dunno,  won't  hurt."  And,  as  he 
declared  to  Mr.  Dale  one  day : 

"  There's  only  me  an'  Louisa,  an'  she's  fixed  handsome 
in  event  I'm  took  off.  I'm  entitled  to  spend  some  of  my 
own  money.  I  did  git  conscience-struck  the  time  I 
bought  the  Toy  spaniels,  because  Louisa  hed  ast  me  to 
put  stain-glass  windies  in  Cousin  Polly's  church,  an'  I  re- 
fused. ISTot  because  I  grudged  the  money  to  the  church, 
but  because  I  didn't  like  the  bumping  nerve  of  Polly. 
Wa'al,  anyway,"  he  continued,  "when  I  marched  in  an' 
set  the  spaniels  down,  Louisa  declared:  'Of  all  the 
ugly  things !'  'Wa'al,  I  says,  'they  be  considered  right 
chic  by  society.'  ']^"ow,  what's  thet  hifalutin  word  ?'  said 
Louisa.  'It  means,'  says  I,  'drest  up  to  N'York.  But  I 
guess,'  I  says  to  her,  'I  better  quit  buying  dogs.'  'You 
don't  do  no  sich  thing,'  says  she,  'it's  jest  the  same  to 
me,  heving  twenty  as  ten  dogs  in  the  yard.  So  long  as 
you  don't  take  to  ginny-hens  an'  hogs — I  say,  spend  your 
own  money  to  suit  yourself ;  you  must  hev'  some  amuse- 
ment, Si,'  and,  said  she,  'when  your  own  money's  spent, 
I'll  lend  ye  mine;  I  got  a  knitted  stocking  full  of  coin 
hid  away.' '' 

Si  chuckled,  telling  this  yarn,  and  added,  with  a  wink : 

"It  would  take  more'n  a  knitted  stocking  full  of  sav- 
ings to  buy  the  spaniels,  an'  they  ain't  fit  for  more'n 
bric-a-brac  in  a  feller's  yard. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SOMETHING  IS  WRONG. 

Having  satisfied  herself  that  Lady  Dee  would  not  be 
annoyed  by  the  dogs,  Maithele  sauntered  to  the  house, 
gathering  violets  as  she  went.  The  wild  specimens  grow 
exuberantly  in  this  part  of  the  State  between  August 
and  October. 

June  roses  were  in  her  cheeks ;  they  were  always  there 
— and  soft  breezes  had  gone  recklessly  with  her  tresses ; 
the  stiff  brush  was  needed  as  a  corrector.  She  meant  only 
to  lay  the  bone-handled  crop  where  she  might  find  it 
again  before  running  up  to  her  room.  As  she  paused 
upon  the  threshold  of  the  living-room,  she  beheld  Allan 
sitting  at  the  round  table,  his  gaze  fixed  upon  a  map 
spread  before  him. 

Surprise  rooted  her  to  the  spot,  and  she  stood  one 
joyous  moment,  red  lips  apart,  and  the  light  of  summer 
in  her  eyes. 

"A  pleasure  I  had  not  anticipated,"  said  he,  going 
forward,  both  hands  extended.    Finding  a  place  for  the 
crop,  she  spoke : 
-  "I  would  not  have  come  if  I  had  known." 

"Glad  that  you  did  not." 

She  dropped  nicely  into  a  chair,  bending  at  once  over 
the  map  spread  upon  the  table.  It  is  so  easy  to  find  the 
good  excuse  for  the  misconduct  of  one  whom  one  loves ! 
The  extenuating  circumstance  would  develop  to  clear 

58 


SOMETHING    IS    WRONG  59 

him  presently;  she  would  be  patient.  It  is  not  fair  to 
judge  one  on  the  instant,  nor  without  justice,  and  it 
seemed  but  last  night  that  she  listened  to  the  story,  so 
sweet,  so  tender,  that  once  told  is  proved  only  by  the 
retelling.  Had  he  repented  all  the  passion  and  fervor 
the  story  contained?  Was  he  afraid,  ashamed  to  re- 
hearse it  ?  He  should  have  his  chance,  but  she  should  not 
invite  it.  Thus  she  assured  herself,  slowly  beginning  to 
make  conversation : 

"  I  do  not  know  east  from  west ;  my  education  has  been 
neglected." 

"You  know  enough  to  manage  animals." 

"  Oh,  that  performance  ?" 

At  this  juncture  Scott  stood  framed  in  the  doorway. 

"Say,  the  dogs  air  in  a  huff,  jealous  over  Lady  Dee 
an'  her,"  jerking  his  head  in  Maithele's  direction. 

"  I'm  going  to  give  'em  a  run — be  back  in  a  half  hour, 
if  you  can  git  along  without  my  company,"  chuckling, 
"thet  long.  Louisa  says,  'Excuse  her,  if  ye  both  got 
app'tites.' " 

Tim  Shinn,  eager  to  be  off,  jumped  up  and  down. 

"I  will  go  to  Mrs.  Scott's  assistance,"  said  Maithele, 
rising. 

"Now  set  right  down.  Louisa  won't  hev'  any  one  in 
the  kitchen  when  she's  baking  lemon  pies." 

"She  won't  mind  me,  Mr.  Scott," 

"She'd  mind  the  Angel  Gabriel.  He'll  hev'  to  blow 
thet  trumpet  on  a  off  day,  if  he  wants  Louisa  to  stand 
stiddy,  and  hear  his  tune.  I  never  try  arg'ments  on  her 
when  the  pie  is  about  ready  an'  the  oven  red  hot.  I 
tried  it  onct,  an'  I  got  dough  in  my  stomach  for  about  a 
month.  Give  him  a  tune,  ther's  the  pianny  an'  the 
violin."  His  hand  swept  in  the  direction  of  the 
instruments. 


60  OUE  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"You  need  not  talk,"  said  Allan,  when  the  door  closed 
upon  Scott,  "if  you  do  not  care  to.  I  am  trying  to  locate 
a  bit  of  land.  I  am  here  on  business.  If  my  presence 
annoys  you,  I  will  take  the  map  outside." 

What  a  little  thing  will  sting ! 

'This,  then,  was  his  attitude. 

"It  might  be  as  well;  you  are  here  on  business, 
and  I  must  remain  in  this  room,  it  seems,  until  Mrs. 
Scott  is  through  with  the  lemon  pies — I  hate  lemon 
pies !" 

He  did  not  vouchsafe  a  remark,  did  not  seem  to  hear, 
and  she  questioned  sharply : 

"There  are  no  maps  in  your  town,  I  suppose?" 

"A  few.  Scott  owns  the  land  we  want.  I'm  engaged 
on  his  map." 

"  Should  that  make  any  difference  ?"  She  walked  over 
to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

The  view  was  fair,  indeed.  The  lovely  green  lawn 
ended  in  a  riotous  climbing  of  morning  glories,  scarlet 
runners  and  dewy  bells  over  a  low  wicket  fence  garlanded 
again  on  the  opposite  side  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 

An  open  field  of  waving  green  filled  a  space  beyond 
which  a  clump  of  primeval  forest  trees,  looking  dwarfed 
and  frail,  swept  at  the  base  of  terraced  hills  touched  with 
a  blue-purple  haze. 

For  several  moments  she  gazed  upon  the  prospect, 
with  eyes  unseeing,  but  her  attention  was  arrested  by  a 
great  buzzard  swooping  downward  to  the  edge  of  the 
field — another — still  another;  around  and  around  they 
whirled,  then  down,  down  upon  their  prey. 

Her  heart,  disturbed  enough  that  day,  rose  up  in 
wrath  against  the  scavengers. 

"Poor  little  dead  bird  or  rabbit,"  she  sighed,  "entitled, 
I  should  think,  to  a  grave." 


SOMETHING    IS    WRONG  61 

For  the  moment  she  had  forgotten  the  man,  but  his 
voice  recalled  his  presence.  She  turned  slightly. 

"If  you  will  come  back/'  at  the  same  time  drawing  the 
chair  she  had  but  a  few  moments  ago  occupied  nearer  to 
his  own,  "I  will  talk  books,  anything  you  like."  Appar- 
ently she  did  not  hear,  and  he  went  on : 

"  I  am  quite  sure  the  view  is  beautiful,  but " 

"It  was,"  she  answered;  "it  is  spoiled  by  four  horrid 
buzzards." 

"Buzzards  are  not  bad;  they  have  a  right  to  live." 

"Not  on  the  innocent  dead." 

"Dead  what?    Why,  they  are  just  scavengers." 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  out  there  and  see  what  they  are 
devouring." 

"Oh,  now,  you  are  not  getting  rid  of  me  like  that. 
Do  come  back;  this  chair  looks  lonely.  I  want  to  tell 
you  something." 

She  was  immovable. 

"I  learned  incidentally,  the  other  day,  that  you  had 
taken  to  literature,"  he  ventured. 

"And  I  learned  since  the  other  day,  that  you  are  as- 
suming the  ways  of  a  diplomat." 

"Why  should  I?"    Who  are  diplomats?" 

"  Mr.  Dale  is  my  authority ;  he  declares  they  are  'peo- 
ple who  say  nothings  to  make  other  people  laugh !'  " 

"  Then  I  am  not  one ;  my  mission  seems  the  contrary." 

Her  cheeks  were  scarlet,  but  her  face  was  turned  from 
him. 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question,"  he  went  on  with 
quiet  impetus. 

"Why  should  I?" 

"That  is  one  on  diplomatic  pastime.  Be  good,"  he 
almost  whispered. 

"I  don't  mind  helping  you  to  find  the  land." 


62  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

She  softened. 

"If  you  would." 

She  gave  her  attention  at  once  to  the  map. 

The  meeting  had  unnerved  her  from  the  first,  and  her 
interest  in  the  map  was  merely  an  excuse. 

For  several  moments  neither  spoke.  Presently  his 
eyes  lifted.  She  felt  their  earnestness. 

"Titian/'  he  whispered,  as  a  little  breeze,  waving  the 
lace  curtain  put  to  greater  disorder  a  shining  strand  of 
the  wavy  hair. 

"Where  is  Titian?" 

"A  trifle  higher  than  your  eyes." 

"Is  it  land?" 

"Gold!" 

"And  you — "  she  put  her  hand  upon  the  map — 
"are  trying  to  locate  it  ?" 

"I  have  located  it.  The  difficulty  is  to  get  possession 
of  it." 

She  sighed. 

"White  as  snow !"  he  murmured. 

Her  eyes  interrogated,  but  he  only  lifted  the  hand  to 
his  lips.  She  withdrew  it  gently. 

And  he  fell  into  a  mood,  beginning  a  new  theme  with : 

"Ruford  and  Lawrence  are " 

She  interrupted : 

"The  land  you  love  must  be  at  the  north  pole.  I  ex- 
plained my  stupidity  about  geography.  Show  me  the 
land?" 

His  head  swayed  gently. 

"I — I — thought  I  had  it  a  moment  ago,  but  an  ice- 
berg came  along  and  the  vessel  receiving  a  hurt  turned 
the  other  way." 

"  One  shouldn't  venture  upon  the  high  seas  in  a  poor 
craft.  I  remember,"  she  hurried  on,  feigning  ignorance, 


SOMETHING    IS    WROXG  63 

"  the  ocean ;  we  saw  an  iceberg.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight, 
the  sun  full  upon  it.  I  went  into  ecstasy  over  its  pris- 
matic loveliness,  but  the  captain  rather  put  a  damper 
upon  my  ardor  by  remarking:  'If  you  should  have  the 
misfortune  to  run  into  an  iceberg  you  would  hardly  be  so 
gay  over  it.' " 

She  glanced  at  Allan,  expecting  argument  or  nice  re- 
tort, but  icebergs  were  passed.  He  studied  the  map; 
made  several  entries  in  a  small  book,  returned  the  book 
to  the  side  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  remarked,  beginning 
a  chapter : 

"When  I  first  met  you,  you  were — ten?" 

"Fifteen!" 

She  sat  far  back  in  the  big  chair,  her  face  inscrutable. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  reverently,  touching  the  bunch  of 
violets  tucked  in  the  ribbon  belt,  "tell  me  truly,  did  you 
— did  you  care  for  that  boy?  What  was  his  name — 
Walter?" 

She  laughed  softly. 

"Yes,  we  were  engaged." 

"And  that  was  before  I  went  south?" 

Her  face  brightened.  There  is  a  certain  joy,  even  in 
the  moment  of  perplexity,  in  recalling  tender  recol- 
lections. 

"Mother  did  not  dream  that  Walter  and  I  were  in 
love." 

"Couldn't  have  found  it  out  in  a  dozen  3rears." 

"One  Christmas  morning,  Walter  appeared  before  me 
as  I  sat  in  the  library,  pondering  over  a  book — a  gift  of 
the  day.  Well,  Walter  did  not  say  a  word,  he  just  walked 
right  up  to  me  and  kissed  me." 

"Villain!"  cried  Allan,  softly. 

"We  heard  a  step,  and  thrusting  something  into  my 


64 

hand,  he  flew ;  but  mother  stood  in  the  open  door.    Well, 
Walter  was  compelled  to  take  back  his  ring." 

Maithele  held  out  her  hand,  displaying  a  diamond 
cluster.  Allan  examined  it  without  comment, 

"My  troubles  began  early." 

Her  voice  faltered,  but  she  hurried  on  as  if  anxious  to 
be  through  with  the  narrative : 

"Mother  died  a  few  months  after  the  ring  episode. 
Walter  died  with  fever  the  year  after  you  came.  You  re- 
member brother  Tom " 

Her  voice  caught  half-way  between  a  sob  and  a  sigh. 

"  Tom  was  drowned." 

Allan's  eyes  closed  to  hide  their  full  tender  sympathy. 

Hoping  to  divert  her  mind  from  the  greater  tragedy, 
he  inquired : 

"And  the  ring?" 

"Walter's  aunt  sent  it  and  asked  me  to  wear  it 
always." 

"You  would  have  married  Walter  I  suppose,  had  he 
lived." 

"No!  No!"  she  spoke  hurriedly.  "I  discovered  be- 
fore he  died  that  I  loved  some  one  else." 

"Sweet  little  jessamine!"  he  murmured  under  his 
breath.  He  twirled  the  locket  on  his  chain,  recalling 
Ben's  story. 

"Six  years  ago,"  he  began,  reflectively,  "a  young  fel- 
low went  south;  he  was  a  struggler,  he  needed  a  holiday." 

A  pensive  loneliness  fell  upon  Maithele  as  Allan 
resumed : 

"He  met  a  sweet  girl." 

After  a  moment  of  endless  silence  Maithele,  thirsting 
for  knowledge,  broke  in : 

"Proposed — married — and  lived  happily  ever  after?" 


SOMETHING    IS    WKONG  65 

"No.  He  went  home  again.  He  meant  to  spy  some- 
thing; the  night  before  his  departure,  he  made  love  to 
her,  teased  about  another  fellow  and — threatened  to  kid- 
nap her." 

Her  cheeks  were  very  rosy  and  her  heart  was  beating 
high  with  the  joy  of  expectancy. 

"When  he  found  her  again " 

He  paused ;  how  could  he  tell  her  ?  His  heart  was  cold 
with  fear.  She  had  grown  dearer,  dearer  to  him,  since 
the  night  of  the  revelation,  but  woman's  prerogative  is 
often  the  nice  help. 

"I  suppose  she  was  married?" 

"Not  so  bad  as  that." 

Her  eyes  were  upon  the  floor  as  he  added : 

"He  was  engaged  to  another." 

The  bolt  fell. 

But  a  courageous  woman  will  hold  herself  resolutely  at 
the  point  of  the  bayonet,  and,  without  the  slightest  hesi- 
tation or  tremor,  she  replied : 

"He  must  have  cared  frightfully  to  have  sacrificed 
himself." 

Allan  felt  the  sting,  but  his  purpose  was  fixed.  He 
would  have  died  rather  than  hurt  her,  and  for  no  con- 
sideration would  he  lose  her.  He  meant  only  to  sound 
the  warning  note,  and  hold  her  confidence.  He  had  been 
premature.  Clara  Lansing  was  wearying,  perhaps,  in  a 
few  days  he  should  be  dismissed.  Hope  was  opening  the 
way  with  its  arnica  that  soothes  love's  wound.  But  it  is 
fate  that  generally  interposes.  Allan  was  ready  with  a 
certain  sweet  phrase  as  preliminary  when  Mrs.  Scott  ap- 
peared in  the  room. 

"Wa'al  I  didn't  know  tell  thes  minute  thet  you  two 
was  left  alone.  It  do  beat  all !"  Mrs.  Scott  went  on 
without  pausing  for  breath;  "if  it  wa'n't  for  dogs  Si 


G6  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

would  be  polite  an'  sociable  as  any.  But  I  do  believe  if 
the  King  of  England  was  visiting  him,  an'  General  or 
Ted  wanted  a  favor,  the  King  would  hev*  to  set  an'  wait 
tell  the  dogs  was  humored.  I  sometimes  wish  the  Lord 
hed  give  us  children.  They  couldn't  a  bin  more  trouble, 
possibly  less,  an'  hardly  's  contrary.  There's  Tasso,  thet 
Si  calls  the  Ital'an  po-et !  Yeste'dy  he  et  the  Bible  up ; 
he  chewed  it  the  same  as  Si  chews  his  tobacco  quid.  Si 
laughed  when  I  told  him.  'Wa'al'  he  said,  'a  po-et  's  a 
po-et.  Some  of  'em  hangs  on  to  thet  sort  of  lit'ature, 
grinding  an'  chewing  tell  they  finds  an  idee;  then  they 
sets  about  in  their  own  heads  for  a  rhyme,  which  some- 
times hetches  an'  sometimes  don't;  but  it's  alwus  origi- 
nal, because  they  done  it,  which  is  the  main  thing." 

Allan's  face  was  buried  in  the  map,  while  Maithele 
gazed  out  of  the  window. 

"Bead  much  po'try,  Mr.  Allan?  Si  can  spend  hull 
hours  at  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am  very  fond  of  poetry,  Mrs.  Scott." 

"Si  said  the  other  night  'spect  you  be  kin  to  Edgar 
Allan  Poe.  Poe's  the  man  thet  wrote  a  fine  poem  about 
an  owl  thet  crept  into  his  room  one  night  an'  set  on  his 
wife's  bust.  I  didn't  thenk  thet  was  jest  the  theng  to 
write  about." 

"Oh,  you  have  it  wrong,  Mrs.  Scott,"  put  in  Allan, 
while  Maithele  tried  to  recall  the  features  of  the  Sphinx. 

"Poe  fancied  the  bird  was  the  spirit  of  his  dead  wife, 
the  bird  perched  upon  a  bit  of  sculpture — the  bust  of 
Pallas." 

"Now  Si  must  hev'  read  it  wrong." 

Scott  came  into  the  room  quietly. 

"  Wa'al  I'll  swan,  Louisa ;  thought  ye'd  all  be  setting  to 
dinner  time  I  got  back,  an'  here  you  be  gossiping  about 
your  natural  provider." 


SOMETHING    IS    WKONG  67 

"Somebody  must  hev'  manners,  Si,  but  dinner's 
served." 

"The  rules  of  this  house  ain't  many,"  said  Scott.  And 
Maithele,  seizing  an  advantage,  ran  up  the  stairway.  On 
the  landing  she  paused,  patting  Tasso,  who  followed, 
throwing  herself  at  once  into  a  chair. 

"Well,"  she  said,  rocking  slowly,  and  again,  "Well, 
well !  To  think  I  should  find  him  here !"  Yet  how 
the  speck  grew ! 

"I  knew  there  was  something,"  she  went  on,  musing. 
"Pledged!  To  whom?" 

She  rocked,  rocked,  repeating  the  words.  But  her 
reverie  was  broken  by  the  genial  voice  of  the  hostess : 

"Come  right  along,  Maithele;  don't  stop  to  fix  up." 

"I'm  coming,  dear  Mrs.  Scott,"  she  answered  cheerily. 

"We  must  not  keep  them  waiting,"  she  said  to  Tasso, 
adjusting  a  bow,  smoothing  her  hair,  and  straightening 
the  ribbon  belt. 

"I  think  that  will  do,"  nodding  approvingly  to  the 
reflection  in  the  mirror.  "I  might  have  looked  real 
sweet,  but,  of  course,  I  never  dreamed  of  seeing  him  here, 
Tasso !" 

She  grabbed  up  the  little  white  dog,  lifting  him  to  the 
table.  He  was  obedient  and  deeply  attached  to  her. 

"Now,  see  here,"  shaking  her  finger,  "the  story  of 
your  bad  conduct  interrupted,  broke  into  the  most  beau- 
tiful chapter  of  my  life.  See  here !" 

The  dog  looked  frightened. 

"Don't  do  it  again;  you  know "  her  voice  fell  to 

a  whisper. 

"  He  loves  me,  but  there  is  something  wrong.  He  was 
engaged — but — not  now,  except — look  up,  you  little 
white  ball — except  to  me !" 

"Daughter,"  came  the  voice  from  below:   "Dick  hes 


68  OUB  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

your  soup  enstead  of  his,  an'  it's  nearly  e't  up.    Come  on 
if  you  got  any  app'tite." 

And  down  the  steps  she  flew  with  a  rosy  face,  Tasso 
following,  yelping  all  the  way. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ENGAGED  TO  WHOM? 

SCOTT  and  Allan  drove  off  in  the  top  buggy,  and  Mrs. 
Scott,  giving  minute  instructions  to  the  hired  girl, 
invited  Maithele  upstairs. 

"I  was  for  heving  thes  room  new  papered,"  entering  a 
cozy  apartment  where  the  summer  previous  Maithele  had 
spent  a  delightful  week,  "but  Si  put  his  foot  down, 
'Leave  it  alone,  Louisa/ — thet's  jest  what  he  said.  'Don't 
tetch  it;  it  ain't  exactly  your  room,  neither  mine;  it's 
Maithele's,  and  if  we  go  to  making  changes  she  mightn't 
feel  the  same  to  it.' '; 

"Dear  Mr.  Scott!  Do  you  know  sometimes  when  I 
wake  at  night  I  fancy  I  am  here  again,  and  I  long  for 
the  dawn,  that  I  may  see  the  blue  bells  running  all  over 
the  ceiling  and  the  long  tendrils  dropping  over  the 
walls." 

"When  those  sort  of  feelings  come  on,  dearie,  you  bet- 
ter pack  right  up  an'  come  thes  way.  Thes  room  ain't 
going  to  change,  being  as  you  like  it,  an'  it's  yours  as 
long  as  you  live  an'  we  live.  An'  it's  not  only  welcome 
you  be,  but  happy  we'd  be  to  hev5  you  alwus.  We  hed 
several  days  last  winter  that  was  so  dismal  thet  even  me 
and  Si  got  lonely.  I  said  finally  one  morning,  'They  ain't 
ben  a  streak  of  sunshine  in  thes  house  for  three  days.' 
'You're  right,'  says  Si,  an'  he  added,  'if  it  don't  brighten 
soon,  I'll  hev'  to  travel  to  N'York  and  git  Maithele  an' 

69 


70  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

bring  her  up  to  the  valley.    We  wouldn't  feel  the  gloom- 
iness if  she  was  around.'  " 

Maithele  laid  her  hand  gently  on  Mrs.  Scott's  arm; 
the  other  understood.  She  was  thinking  of  that  fine 
heart-quality  that  creates  the  feeling  of  kindred,  and  is 
one  of  the  gifts  of  good  lineage.  Cultivation,  education, 
merely  nurtures  the  quality  to  its  finest  outward  expres- 
sion, it  cannot  create  it.  Without  advantages  the  quality 
is  preeminently  the  same.  Thus  Maithele  knew  assuredly 
that  Scott  and  his  wife  came  of  good  stock. 

Mrs.  Scott  led  the  way  to  her  own  apartment,  which, 
like  the  living-room  below,  was  airy  and  sweet.  On  the 
handsome  walnut  bureau  stood  a  slim  vase  of  newly  cut 
ferns,  and  on  the  small  table  near  the  bed,  a  shallow  bowl 
of  those  funny  blooms  Mrs.  Scott  called  johnnie-jump- 
ups.  Maithele  held  one  of  the  velvety  things  between  the 
first  finger  and  thumb  as  she  seated  herself  in  the  low 
rocker. 

"I  wanted  you  to  come  by  yourself,"  began  Mrs.  Scott, 
"so's  we  could  talk.  I  didn't  calculate  heving  Dick  Allan 
around." 

"Don't  you  like  him?" 

"  Oh,  he's  got  uncommon  good  sense  for  a  man,  but  it's 
sort  of  upset  my  plans.  I  want  to  ast  you  about  some 
things  thet  me  and  Si  hev'  bin  talking  over." 

Regarding  Maithele  earnestly  she  inquired : 

"You  comfortable  dearie,  in  thet  chair?" 

"Delightful." 

"Why,  then,  as  I  was  saying,  off — course,  me  an'  Si's 
kentry;  we  don't  expec'  city  folks  to  do  our  way,  no 
more'n  we  expec'  to  do  ther'n.  But  I  says  to  Si  a  few 
nights  back,  'If  we  get  to  visiting  the  Dale's  reguler, 
we'll  hev'  to  her*  more  clothes.'  I  declare  'cept  my 
wedden'  dress,  thet's  white,  an'  jes'  fit  for  balls,  an'  my 


ENGAGED     TO     WHOM?  71 

black  silk  thet  hikes  up  in  front  an'  I  ben  wearing  it  so 
much  to  funerels  thet  I  can't  feel  sociable  in  it — wa'al, 
'cept  them  two,  I'm  clear  out  of  clothes.  I  want  you  to 
go  to  JSPYork  weth  me  one  day  next  week  an'  not  let  on 
to  the  folks;  Si  says,  'Don't  mind  expense.'  So  I  was 
thenking,  as  spending  money  is  confusing,  to  sort  of  plan 
what  we  needed." 

Malthele  was  glad  to  be  of  small  service,  and  the  list 
was  made  with  much  talk  and  jollying  on  both  sides. 

Later  on,  Mrs.  Scott  brought  out  the  crazy  quilt,  which 
elicited  the  girl's  genuine  admiration.  The  noon  passed 
pleasantly. 

Twilight  was  running  its  long  fingers  through  the 
trees  and  picking  pale  sunbeams  from  hilltops,  as  Mrs. 
Scott  threw  open  the  shutter. 

"Guess  we  need  more  daylight!"  she  said,  pulling 
from  under  the  bed  a  wooden  chest.  She  tugged  at  it 
until  she  had  it  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

Midway  between  newspapers  neatly  spread  was  some- 
thing carefully  folded  in  a  white  sheet.  With  the  care  one 
handles  an  infant,  Mrs.  Scott  lifted  the  bundle  from  the 
chest,  and  laid  it  carefully  upon  the  bed. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Maithele,  and  again,  "Oh!"  as  Mrs. 
Scott  held  the  white  silk  wedding  gown  to  the  light. 

"I  hev'  an  idee,"  said  Mrs.  Scott,  "thet  it  would  jest 
fit  you.  I  wan't  a  bad  looking  girl ;  I  had  some  figger, 
too,  thirty  year  ago,  when  Si  came  courting." 

Maithele  patted  the  cheek.  "You  are  a  dear,  Mrs. 
Scott,"  and  at  once  Maithele  began  to  disrobe. 

"First,  let  me  arrange  my  hair.  How  did  you  wear 
yours  in  those  days,  Mrs.  Scott?" 

"Parted  in  the  middle.    I'd  bring  it  up  like  thes." 

Maithele  caught  the  idea. 


73  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Thet  looks  fine,"  declared  Mrs.  Scott  as  Maithele 
arranged  her  hair,  and  continued  she : 

"I  think  bride  wreaths  look  so  corpsey.  Silas  sent  me 
one  made  of  white  wax  orange  blossoms  day  before  the 
wedding,  but  it  didn't  go  on  my  head." 

"I  would  hardly  care  to  wear  wax  orange  blossoms 
myself,"  laughed  Maithele. 

"You're  about  right;  they  certainly  air  stiff.  Poor  Si, 
hesn't  a  bit  of  taste,  but  he  can  tell  mighty  quick  if  the 
next  one  lacks  it." 

As  the  toilet  progressed  Mrs.  Scott  continued  the  sub- 
ject of  the  proposed  shopping  tour  to  New  York. 

"We  can  put  up  at  the  Manhattan.  Thet's  a  grand 
hotel,  Si  says;  never  ben  there  myself;  I  generally  stop 
weth  Cousin  Kate  when  I  go  to  the  city,  but  you  being 
along,  the  best  won't  be  any  too  good.  An'  'steer  clear  of 
relations/  Si  says,  'an'  spend  all  th'  money  you  want  to.' 
I  dunno,"  she  said,  reflectively,  "how  much  Si's  worth, 
but  I  hope  we  ain't  never  gitting  so  rich  that  lemon 
pies'll  be  beyont  my  hand." 

Maithele  passed  the  small  diversion  with  a  smile. 

"I  declare  if  Si  could  see  you  onct,  it  would  take  him 
back." 

Maithele  was  a  picture,  indeed,  worthy  of  a  Florentine 
setting.  The  shortwaisted  gown  had  a  sort  of  Empire 
effect,  and,  as  the  girl  tilted  the  mirror  and  walked  half- 
way down  the  room  to  admire  herself,  she  tried  to 
imagine  the  bride  of  thirty  years  back  with  the  Mrs. 
Scott  of  to-day. 

"Was  all  this  your  own  idea,  Mrs.  Scott?" 

"No,  no  indeed.  A  friend  give  me  the  address  of  a 
fust-class  dressmaker,  so  I  went  down  to  N'York  an'  hed 
her  measure  me  up ;  I  remember  it  as  if  it  had  been  yes- 
te'dy.  'You  want  it'n  the  latest  style?'  she  ast.  I  said, 


ENGAGED    TO    WHOM?  73 

'Yes'm,  an'  real  fine  and  fancy.  Buy  the  hull  thing/  I 
said ;  'git  all  you  need.'  Wa'al,  she  did,  an'  more,  from 
the  figgers  of  the  bill.  I  was  near  paralyzed  when  I  got 
it.  But  I  hed  a  snug  sum  in  bank  of  my  own,  and  I  laid 
a  pile  of  it  on  thet  \vedding  dress  wethout  a  murmur  or 
regret,  for  it  certainly  did  take  Si.  If  a  real  queen  hed 
stood  weth  me  thet  morning  an'  Si  had  the  choosing  be- 
tween us,  she'd  hed  to  stand  back.  Si  never  gets  through 
talking  about  thet  dress,  an'  he  'lows  to  this  day  they 
ain't  money  to  buy  it,  after  all  these  years  hev'  passed 
an'  gone." 

Mrs.  Scott  went  into  the  adjoining  room,  returning 
presently. 

"In  them  days  it  want  queer  to  see  young  girls  in  short 
sleeves  going  to  parties  an'  the  like.  In  these  days  they 
don't  wear  sleeves  at  all ;  howsomever,  I  recall  the  parson 
thet  married  us  looked  skittish  when  he  set  his  eyes  on 
me,  an'  my  aunt  staid  away  from  the  ceremony  on  ac- 
count of  thet  dress,  but,  as  Si  said,  'If  any  man  or  woman 
objects  to  ye,  Louisa,  it's  sour  grapes.' '; 

Mrs.  Scott  unlocked  the  bedroom  door  leading  to  the 
hall,  and  called  in  a  big  voice  to  Prudence : 

"Light  all  the  lights  in  the  house  an'  do  it  quick." 
Then  in  a  higher  key : 

"Is  thet  table  set  ?" 

Prudence  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"What  about  the  chickens?  Hev'  ye  made  the  white 
gravy?" 

Mrs.  Scott  could  not  catch  the  girl's  remark. 

"Hey?    Hope  ye  hevn't  scorched  it?" 

The  answer  seemed  satisfactory  and  Mrs.  Scott  re- 
turned to  the  room,  proceeding  to  don  the  black  silk 
gown. 

"I  got  only  one  favor,"  turning  to  Maithele;  "now, 


74  OTJE  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

please  don't  desappoint  me.  I  want  you  to  wear  thet 
dress  to  supper.  It  will  make  Silas  so  happy." 

"I  would  love  to,  Mrs.  Scott,  but " 

"Now,  you're  going  to  stay  for  supper.  Si  said  when 
he  went  off  thet  he'd  see  Mr.  Dale  at  the  mine,  an'  tell 
him  you  was  engaged  for  the  night." 

Maithele  made  no  response,  and  Mrs.  Scott  drifted 
into  another  channel. 

"Say,  don't  you  thenk  thet  Mr.  Lawrence  is  stuck  on 
Dorothy?" 

"Everybody  loves  Dorothy." 

"But  who  does  she  love?" 

Maithele  flushed,  passing  the  question. 

"Will  Mr.  Allan  return?" 

"Dunno." 

"I  think  I'd  better  go." 

"Ain't  you  two  friendly?" 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,  but "  she  looked  upon  her  own 

reflection  in  the  mirror,  and  seemed  satisfied. 

"If  you  don't  want  to  see  him  ?" 

"Oh,  I  do,  but " 

"Now,"  cut  in  Mrs.  Scott,  "thet's  the  way  I  used  to 
treat  Si.  I  wanted  to  see  him  worse'n  anything,  but 
when  he  would  come,  I'd  act  queer  an'  he  would  go  off. 
I  missed  a  heap  because  of  my  queerness.  Don't  you  be 
foolish  when  you  like  a  man,  give  him  a  chanst.  Every 
man  can't  be  done  like  Si.  Now,  like  a  dear,  walk  about 
in  the  parlor  in  thet  dress.  I  want  to  see  how  I  looked 
on  thet  happy  day." 

Maithele  complied  reluctantly ;  she  did  not  mind  Silas, 
she  would  have  danced  for  him  in  the  bridal  gown,  but 
Richard  Allan !  If  he  returned  what  might  he  think  ? 
She  felt  rather  annoyed,  she  hoped  Mrs.  Scott  would  not 
mind,  but  she  must  get  the  gown  off  before  the  men  re- 


ENGAGED    TO    WHOM?  75 

turned.  They  went  below  and  she  walked  demurely  up- 
and  down  the  length  of  the  long  room,  to  the  edification 
of  Mrs.  Scott  and  the  delight  of  Prudence,  who,  peeping 
through  the  open  door,  exclaimed  with  the  tactless  slip  of 
her  kind : 

"  Oh,  now,  Mrs.  Scott,  sure  you  never  looked  beautiful 
like  her,  ma'am." 

And  as  she  spoke  the  barking  of  dogs  announced  the 
master,  but  Maithele  did  not  realize  that  the  men  were 
in  the  house  until  the  big  voice  of  Silas  Scott  broke  into 
the  room  and,  retreat  was  impossible. 

"Wa'al,  I'll  swan !" 

Scott  stood  in  the  doorway,  his  hands  thrust  deep  into 
his  trouser  pockets,  and  the  gray  slouched  hat  over  the 
face  with  the  usual  tilt. 

Allan,  standing  behind  Silas,  doffed  his  hat  with  that 
movement  that  bespeaks  respect,  and  her  eyes,  sweeping 
the  elder  man,  fell  before  the  tenderness  in  his  gaze. 

"Wa'al,  I'll  swan !"  Scott  repeated  gently,  grabbing  his 
wife  about  the  waist. 

"She's  the  only  girl  thet  could  begin  to  come  up  to 
you,  an'  the  way  it  do  fit !" 

He  turned  Maithele  about. 

"How  did  you  come  to  get  the  idee,  Louisa?"  tossing 
his  hat  into  a  chair. 

"If  it  ain't  the  very  day  to  a  minute  thirty  years  back. 
Say,  Allan!" 

But  Allan  had  disappeared. 

"Wa'al,  I'll  swan !  How  a  man  could  run  from  sich  a 
bridal  vision  beats  me !" 

He  looked  about  the  room. 

"Wher's  the  General  an' " 

"Not  in  the  parlor,  Si." 


76  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Right  in  the  parlor,  Louisa;  the  occasion  demands  a 
salute  from  the  General  an'  Adjutant." 

A  low  whistle  brought  the  dogs  to  the  door,  which 
Louisa  opened,  and  in  they  scrambled,  conscience 
stricken  and  tails  subdued.  But  in  a  moment  the  bull- 
pup's  conduct  became  unpardonable.  He  was  vigorously 
thrown  into  the  dark,  and  as  though  delighted  at  his  dis- 
comfiture, Tasso  stood  up  on  his  hind  legs. 

"There's  genius  for  you,"  shouted  Silas.  And  while 
he  spoke  Prudence  announced  supper.  Scott  turned 
upon  the  dogs,  addressing  General : 

"Lead  the  army  to  the  rear  of  the  house;  there's  a  an- 
niversary going  on  inside." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  ANNIVERSARY  DINNER. 

THE  table  was  beautifully  arranged,  and  the  four  sat 
down  as  the  clock  struck  seven. 

Pouring  a  small  quantity  of  wine  into  his  own  glass, 
Scott  filled  Maithele's  and  passed  the  bottle  to  Allan, 
who  did  likewise  for  Mrs.  Scott;  when  the  bottle  came 
back  again  to  Scott  he  filled  his  own  glass  and  lifted  it : 

"Confusion  to  our  enemies,  an'  may  we  never  fare 
worse !" 

It  was  Scott's  usual  preliminary. 

"Thes  is  a  day,"  proceeded  the  host,  standing  erect, 
with  his  left  hand  on  the  table,  his  right  ready  for  ges- 
ture, "the  day  thet  comes  onct  in  every  year,  the  sweetest 
day  in  the  whole  three  hundred  and  sixty-five.  I  suppose 
me  an'  Louisa  is  some  older  thin  we  was  thirty  year  ago 
thes  minute,  but  we  don't  feel  older,  an'  it's  the  way  you 
feel  thet  counts. 

"H'm" — lifting  the  slim  glass  of  sparkling  Burgundy 
to  the  light,  and  placing  it  again  upon  the  table.  "There 
be  women  and  women,"  he  said  reflectively.  "When  a 
feller's  young,  seems  as  if  they  was  all  a  parcel 
of  fairies,  but,  as  he  keeps  studying  about  'em, 
the  hull  bunch  resolves  itself  into  jest  one. 
Fairy  exper'ence  is  sich  a  razzle-dazzle,  ye  apt  to 
git  ketched  before  ye  be  ready  to  ketch.  I  seen  a  red 
bird  onct,  thet  I  wanted ;  I  was  a  little  chap  at  the  time. 
Pop  encouraged  me  mighty:  'Git  some  salt/  says  he, 

77 


78  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

'an'  when  the  bird  lights  to  the  ground  drap  the  salt  on 
its  tail/  I  wa'n't  smart  in  them  days  like  the  kid  chaps 
as  go  duding  about  these  days.  One  day  I  seen  two  red 
birds,  then  three.  Finally  the  woods  was  full  of  'm." 
Scott  made  that  funny  little  noise  in  the  throat  prepara- 
tory to  change  of  subject.  He  looked  wistfully  from  the 
sparkling  wine  to  the  placid  face  of  Louisa ;  then  his  eyes 
fell  upon  Maithele.  "They  ain't  but  one  woman  'n  the 
hull  world  for  one  man,"  he  said.  And  then,  after  a 
pause,  shaking  his  head  emphatically.  "Thet's  God-a- 
Mighty's  truth.  Sometimes  it's  harder  to  git  thet  woman 
then  it  be  to  put  salt  on  the  bird's  tail,  but  the  feller 
ain't  wuth  shucks  thet  'lows  her  to  give  him  the  slip  onct 
he's  hed  a  holt." 

He  paused,  his  lips  coming  together  firmly.  Then, 
lifting  the  glass  in  Pickwickian  style : 

"  Louisa,  here's  to  you  !" 

He  faced  Maithele. 

"Your  happiness,  daughter." 

To  Allan. 

"Yours,  Dick." 

And  when  he  had  drained  the  glass  he  went  to  carving 
briskly. 

Allan's  eyes  deep  upon  his  vis-a-vis,  whispered : 

"Rose  of  Sharon." 

"What's  thet?"  inquired  Scott. 

"A  rose  that  never  dies." 

"Good  for  you,  Dick.    Maithele's  thet  kind." 

Scott  told  many  yarns,  and  the  fun  went  round,  until 
Mrs.  Scott's  head  inclined,  returning  thanks. 

As  all  rose  Scott  said:  "I  can't  sleep  'less  I  smoke 
a  ci-gar,  an'  on  a  great  o-casion  like  thes,  I  hev'  to  hev' 
about  three.  What  do  you  say,  Louisa  ?" 

"Thet's  so." 


THE    ANNIVERSARY    DINNER  79 

Putting  his  arm  about  his  wife  he  turned  to  his 
guests : 

"If  you  will  favor  us,  Maithele,  with  a  song,  I'm 
thenking  the  ent'tainment  will  be  about  complete ;  me  an' 
Louisa  '11  set  out  on  the  verancly  an'  spoon." 

Allan  and  Maithele  went  into  the  sitting-room  and 
Maithele  seated  herself  at  the  piano,  running  her  fingers 
over  the  keys. 

"I'm  not  familiar  with  this  instrument,"  she  said. 

He  made  no  comment,  and,  after  singing  one  verse  of  a 
light  ballad,  she  faced  Allan  apologetically. 

"I  did  not  think  you  would  return." 

"Couldn't  stay  away  from  you." 

"  Give  us  'Annie  Laurie,' "  came  from  without. 

While  she  sang  Allan  tried  to  formulate  a  plan  of 
action,  and  finally  arrived  at  a  certain  conclusion. 

"Annie  Laurie"  was  followed  by  applause;  then  Allan 
asked  for  his  favorite. 

It  was  sweet  to  do  his  bidding.  She  sang  with  all  the 
pathos  of  her  rich  voice  a  simple,  tender  ballad.  And 
as  the  words  swelled  out : 

"  I  did  not  know  that  we  should  part, 
Dear  heart,  dear  heart." 

He  bent  forward  whispering : 

"But  we  must."  He  wheeled  the  piano  stool  which 
brought  her  face  near  his  own. 

"I  lose  my  reason,  Maithele,"  he  cried  softly,  "sweet 
as  you  are  in  the  bridal  robe." 

She  trembled,  feeling  his  warm  breath,  and  doubt  sped, 
but  only  for  a  moment ;  it  returned  presently,  and  with 
it  the  agonizing  sense  of  loss.  Yet  in  the  happy  moment 


80  OUR  BIGHT  TO  LOVE 

she  felt,  realized,  that  she  was  beloved,  tenderly,  wholly, 
even  as  she  loved. 

Her  trembling  hand  touched  the  music-rack;  two 
selections  tumbled  to  the  floor.  Allan  gathered  them  up, 
his  eyes  falling  upon  the  title  of  one,  "Vikings."  He 
smiled. 

"How  different  it  might  have  been,"  he  said,  "if  we 
had  lived  in  the  days  of  Vikings;  I  would  have  stolen 
you,  I  would  have  carried  you  off."  His  voice  filled  with 
passionate  earnestness. 

"Oh,  how  beautiful  life  might  have  been,  sailing  the 
high  seas  with  you." 

A  troubled  look  came  into  her  eyes. 

"I  would  not  have  touched  a  hair  of  your  dear  head 
if — if — you  did  not  care  to — to  be  my  bride;  if  your 
heart  had  not  a  greatness  of  love  for  me,  I  would  have 
given  you  your  freedom,  I  would  have  carried  you  back 
to  your  own  people — sweet — sweet  and  pure.  I  would 
have  left  you  forever." 

He  was  holding  her  hands. 

"I  wish  Vikings  lived  in  these  days,"  she  cried,  her 
eyes  passing  him ;  he  saw  the  light !  But  in  a  moment 
it  was  lost  in  unmistakable  sadness. 

The  cuckoo  called  the  hour,  and  the  next  instant 
Scott's  head  appeared  at  the  open  door. 

"H'm— h'm,"  shuffling  his  feet. 

"You  might  blame  me,  Dick,  if  thet  train  gits  away 
without  you." 

The  head  disappeared,  and  instantly  Allan  was  upon 
his  feet. 

"Maithele!" 

His  arms  extended  passionately,  then  dropped  to  his 
sides  limp. 


THE     ANNIVERSARY     DINNER  81 

She  was  standing,  waiting  the  sentence  that  required 
all  his  self-mastery. 

He  came  near — one  step,  his  hands  now  safe  behind 
his  back,  his  head  bowed. 

"It  is  true — I  am  engaged — forgive !" 

Her  eyes  were  cast  down  as  he  proceeded : 

"Never  doubt  that  I  was — am  sincere.  I  love  you — 
dear" — his  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper — "I  have  always 
loved  you,  always/' 

She  gave  no  sign. 

"Good-by,"  he  murmured. 

Still  no  word. 

"Good-by,  dear,  dear,"  he  repeated.  "I  owe  you  an 
explanation ;  I  will  see  you  soon ;  you  will  understand." 

The  eyes  opened,  looking  full  into  his  own. 

'"Pardon,  you  owe  me  nothing.  I  hold  you  in  no  way. 
I — I  am  to  blame  for  a  little  foolishness.  I — I  was 
merely  rehearsing  a  part." 

"Maithele !  you  do  not  understand." 

Scott's  voice  came  from  the  open  door : 

"Dick,  you  ain't  got  more'n  twenty  minutes  to  git  thet 
train." 

"Won't  you  tell  me  good-by  ?"  he  cried  pleadingly. 

She  turned  to  the  piano.    Scott  was  waiting. 

"Good-by,"  she  half  spoke,  feebly  striking  a  minor 
chord. 

He  turned  away,  and  she  heard  his  steps  as  he  hurried 
down  the  hall.  And  then  the  neigh  of  a  horse;  the  bark 
of  a  dog ;  the  crack  of  a  whip. 

Things  went  black !  Her  head  dropped  lightly  into 
her  hands  and  darkness  lifted  to  show  the  opening  deeps. 

"Oh,  Dorothy,  Dorothy,"  she  cried,  "why,  oh,  why  did 
vou  deceive  me !" 


82  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

And  when  she  lifted  her  head>  Mrs.  Scott  was  turning 
down  the  lamps. 

"Go  straight  to  your  room,"  said  the  dear  soul;  "you 
hev5  bin  jest  pestered  out." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  spoke  with  averted  face,  "but  if  you 
don't  mind,  I  am  a  bit  weary." 

She  went  up  the  steps  slowly,  trailing  the  bridal  robe, 
and  Mrs.  Scott's  loving  gaze  followed  to  the  landing. 

"Precious  lamb !  She  has  quarreled  weth  him ;  thet's 
the  way  I  used  to  treat  Si,  only  Si  took  it  from  the 
roadside." 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  BONFIRE. 

So  absorbed  was  Maithele  in  her  own  thoughts  that 
she  failed  to  perceive  the  attention  lavished  upon  her  by 
Dorothy,  whose  sympathetic  nature,  detecting  the  other's 
troubled  countenance,  longed  to  comfort. 

Dorothy  did  not  wholly  understand  Maithele's 
depression. 

They  were  on  the  hay-wagon,  and,  after  a  lull  in  the 
conversation  that  had  been  fairly  bright,  Maithele 
ventured : 

"Would  you  marry  a  man  you  didn't  love?" 

"Not  I!" 

"But  if  you  knew  the  one  man  you  did  love  was  en- 
gaged to  the  dearest,  sweetest  friend  you  ever  had  on 
earth,  what  would  you  do?" 

"Oh,  dearie,  give  me  something  easy !" 

"Please!" 

"Well,  really,  Maithele,  if  the:  man  I  loved  had  prom- 
ised himself  to  another "  she  paused,  connecting  sen- 
tences meditatively,  "before  I  came  into  his  life,  I  think 
I  might  die  an  old  maid.  But  if  he  loved  the  other  girl, 
and  had  merely  flirted  with  me,  I  think — oh,  I  think  a 
dozen  things.  I  could  hate  him  for  one.  He  wouldn't 
be  worth  pique.  You  know  a  case?"  A  pink  flame 
touched  her  face.  Jealousy  is  the  ignis  fatuus  of  the 
brain !  "And  the  man?"  she  went  on. 

"  I  can  only  tell  you  this — he  is  the  dearest  fellow,  the 
very  soul  of  honor." 

S3 


84  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Loving  two  girls  at  the  same  time?" 

Maithele  winced;  she  continued,  however,  apologeti- 
cally, for  there  is  ever  a  plausible  excuse  for  the  man  the 
woman  loves,  even  for  his  most  deplorable  acts : 

"I  do  not  know  the  whole  story." 

"Describe  him." 

Maithele  began  the  arduous  task,  with  eyes  drifting 
to  the  far-away. 

"A  perfect  description  of  Ned,"  thought  Dorothy,  lis- 
tening and  recalling  something  Ned  had  said  compli- 
mentary to  Maithele.  Besides,  Ned  had  not  written  as 
he  promised  and  many  days  had  passed.  She  re- 
flected ;  if  Ned  was  flirting  ?  Well,  revenge  is  sweet ! 
"Intolerable!"  she  murmured  to  herself  at  the  mo- 
ment, but  later,  as  she  put  two  and  two  together,  she 
fancied  she  had  some  cause,  and  accordingly  arranged  to 
persecute  the  man  she  loved. 

And  Maithele,  fancying  that  she  had  described  Allan 
too  accurately,  was  giving  the  conversation  a  turn,  as 
Pat,  who  had  been  raking  near-by,  called  out : 

"Ye  come  down  off  that  wagon  right  off.  Ye  be  the 
most  thrying  gals  I  ever  seen ;  I  wondther  what  ye'll  be 
doin'  next.  There's  people  up  at  the  house,  an'  ye  pa's 
waving  his  handkerchy  at  ye.  Come  right  down  now." 

Dorothy  slipped  down  easily.  Maithele  jumped  when 
half  way. 

"Now,  the  loike  of  that !"  exclaimed  Pat.  "Better  en- 
gage a  doctor  an'  have  him  round  handy,  instead  of  so 
many  beaux.  For  it's  broken  heads  or  legs  ye're  goin'  to 
hav'  some  of  these  days." 

Maithele  laughed  aloud,  but  Dorothy  did  not  even 
deign  to  hear. 

The  same  evening  Dorothy  sent  a  line  to  Richard 
Allan,  which  somewhat  surprised  the  gentleman.  The 


THE     BONFIRE  85 

note  stated  that  she  had  a  crow  or  some  such  bird  to  pick 
with  him.  He  obeyed  the  summons  reluctantly. 

He  fancied  that  Dorothy  entertained  suspicion  of  his 
conduct  and  that  she  meant  to  bring  him  to  task. 

Man  is  prone  to  make  superior  claim  where  woman 
has  acknowledged  the  highest  compliment,  and  he  con- 
stitutes himself  high  priest  ever  after,  notwithstanding 
that  his  conduct  often  places  him  rather  ambiguously  for 
the  position. 

Allan  was  not  in  a  fine  humor  when  Miss  Dorothy 
Dale's  note  arrived.  Two  nights  previous  to  its  arrival, 
Clara  Lansing  had  quarreled  with  him,  but  the  quarrel 
was  not  one  of  which  he  could  take  advantage,  being 
brought  about  by  himself.  The  gentleman  at  all  times, 
he  wrote  a  note  of  apology  to  the  lady  and  with  Dorothy's 
invitation  came  her  ladylike  pardon.  Thus  he  had  made 
little  progress  toward  alienating  the  lady's  affections. 
He  resolved  with  feelings  rather  desole  to  make  explana- 
tions to  Maithele,  to  justify  himself,  and  yet,  he  argued, 
what  might  be  the  justification?  His  opinion  of  Clara 
Lansing  had  changed  materially ;  she  evidently  meant  to 
pass  indifference  and  to  pay  little  heed  to  slight  provoca- 
tions. Gentlemanly  etiquette  forbade  decided  methods. 

But  fate  was  against  him,  and  the  early  part  of  the 
evening  brought  only  chagrin.  Dorothy  had  taken  com- 
plete possession  of  him  for  the  evening,  which  in  no  in- 
stance could  be  annoying,  as  Dorothy  was  a  delightful 
and  companionable  girl.  But  he  longed  to  be  near 
Maithele  on  this  bonfire  occasion. 

The  bonfire,  when  the  weather  permitted,  was  a  feature 
of  the  evening,  but  the  present  bonfire  Dorothy  made  an 
occasion.  It  had  its  special  place  marked  in  the  day  by 
dead  ashes  heaped  in  a  worn  circle  to  the  right  of  Ham- 


86  OUE  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

mock  Court.   Often  a  gypsy  kettle  swung  on  the  crane, 
emitting  savory  odors. 

Scott  had  just  thrown  a  great  log  into  the  blaze,  and, 
with  the  crackle,  as  of  giant  teeth  crunching,  a  red 
tongue  shot  into  the  air,  licking  with  relish  the  crisp 
green  leaves. 

The  bullpup  snarled  in  a  dream  under  the  bench,  and 
Tim  Shinn  within  close  range  of  the  blaze  opened  one 
eye  as  Scott  seated  himself  again.  But  Scott  was  a  man 
of  weight,  the  bench  upset  and  the  bullpup  awakening, 
scrambled  tragically  from  under  it  with  a  terrified  howl 
which  brought  Tim  Shinn  to  his  feet. 

"Ha— ha— ha"  laughed  Scott,  "scairt  to  death, 
drempt  I  left  him." 

The  dog  cuddled  up  to  Scott,  who  patted  him  on  the 
head. 

"A  dumb  brute  can't  talk  at  you  nor  back  of  you,  an' 
I  like  the  solemn  intel'gence  of  a  dog.  I  don't  go  where 
they  don't  like  dogs — church,  for  example.  Dogs  an' 
ministers  don't  gee.  Did  you  ever  notice?  It's  some 
different  at  Forty-Fort  Church,  your  dog  can  slip  in 
there  an'  welcome.  I  had  Tim  Shinn  in  a  church  weth 
me  onct,  he  was  all  right  tell  sermon  time;  when  the 
minister  got  riled  up,  thet  dog  got  riled  up.  I  give  him 
a  nudge,  but  he  didn't  pay  no  attention;  presently  the 
reverend  gentleman  put  his  first  down  hard  on  the  rim 
of  the  pulpit,  an'  he  yells  out  sudden :  'What  in  con- 
science,' said  he,  'is  the  matter  weth  thet  dog  ?'  'Oh,'  said 
I — '  I  hed  to  say  suthin',  everybody  was  looking  my  way 
and  a  feller  that  I  fairly  hated  was  grinning — 'Oh, 
nothin','  I  sent  back.  'Them's  only  his  cuss  words ;  guess 
he  be  riled  over  the  sermon/  Wa'al  thet  feller  jest 
roared,  an'  the  reverend  gentleman  allowed  him  or  thet 
dog  hed  to  quit.  We  turned  out  'n  favor  of  the  preacher, 


THE    BONFIRE  87 

an'  we  ain't  bin  together  in  church  sence."  Dale  laughed 
heartity,  patting  the  bullpup's  head. 

Warm  rugs  covered  the  benches  and  Aunt  Helen  drew 
a  brown  skin  about  her  limbs.  A  fancy  red  hood  was 
upon  her  head  and  she  looked  like  a  big  papoose,  save 
that  her  arms  were  not  strapped;  they  contained  a 
wonderful  yellow  and  black  striped  creature,  known  on 
the  island  as  Miss  Jack  Tiger.  Miss  Tiger  was  not 
afraid  of  Scott's  dogs,  she  simply  despised  them;  but 
Aunt  Helen  was  watchful,  and  when  Miss  Jack  appeared 
at  gatherings  she  was  generally  protected  by  Aunt 
Helen's  strong  arm. 

Maithele  did  not  wonder  at  Dorothy's  unusual  warm 
greeting,  charming  manner,  and  welcome  extended 
Richard  Allan,  but  she  did  take  herself  into  account, 
condemning  her  own  conduct. 

The  analysis  of  her  heart  was  severe;  and  days 
before  the  bonfire,  she  decided  that  Mr.  Richard  Allan 
should  find  no  opportunity  for  further  explanation.  But 
the  bravery  planned  in  the  quiet  hour,  when  the  excuse 
for  bravery  is  lacking,  is  like  temptation  nicely  put  aside 
when  the  occasion  is  wanting. 

She  greeted  Allan  pleasantly,  coldly,  he  thought,  then 
gave  her  attention  to  the  other  guests. 

Listening  to  her  happy  laugh,  no  one,  not  Allan,  real- 
ized the  anguish  that  she  suffered.  Yet  strength  of  heart 
is  not  gained  in  a  day,  and  pride,  the  great  assistant, 
often  enough,  must  be  whipped  along. 

Every  bonfire  was  an  entertainment  with  Silas  Scott. 
He  made  the  entertainment;  the  sibilant  tongue  of  the 
blaze  inspiring  his  best  thought.  The  few  whose  good 
fortune  it  was  to  meet  with  him  about  the  blaze  rarely,  if 
ever,  forgot  his  wonderful  personality,  or  the  genial 
humor  that  made  his  anecdote  the  one  worth  remember- 


88  OUK  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

ing.  Everybody  had  a  story,  even  dignified  Aunt  Helen, 
who  regaled  the  guests  with  touches  of  early  youth. 

At  the  moment  Mr.  Dale  was  harping  on  strikes,  Scott 
taunting  ingloriously. 

"You  ain't  hed  nuthing  stole  sense  morning?" 

"No." 

"Then  don't  be  squimmidging.  Mebbe  you  art  to  hev' 
hed." 

Constant  raids  on  the  island,  though  small  offences, 
such  as  digging  hills  of  potatoes  and  other  delectable 
vines,  were  not  so  very  serious,  yet  every  misdemeanor  of 
the  kind  worried  Mr.  Dale. 

Dorothy  tactfully  led  the  conversation  into  happier 
channels.  Politics,  business  talk,  strikes,  were  eliminated. 

And  Scott  caught  the  cue,  engaging  the  attention 
of  all. 

"If  you  want  sport  jest  get  Louisa  talking  about 
Injuns.  It  ain't  the  actual  facts  as  she  seen  'm,  but  as 
her  dad  seen  'm.  Give  me  Louisa  every  time  imagination 
is  needed." 

Dorothy  laughed. 

"Yes,  turn  to  Louisa  for  fun,  daughter.  Louisa  has 
a  repitation  for  op'ning  pufformances.  She  has  a  story 
about  her  Cousin  Polly " 

'TDon't  tetch  on  pussonals,  Si,"  cried  Mrs.  Scott. 

"Sho !    Ye  don't  call  Jerry  and  Polly  pussonals." 

"They  be  part  of  the  family." 

Scott's  eyes  twinkled  with  the  genuine  merriment  of 
the  born  narrator,  and  Mrs.  Scott  whispered  to  Aunt 
Helen : 

"No  use  my  telling  the  story,  he  would  be  correcting 
all  the  time.  Might  as  well  let  him  hev'  the  pleasure 
anyway." 

"Louisa  can  tell  the  story,  but  she's  shyer'n  her  Aunt 


THE    BONFIRE  89 

Polly's  fust  husband,"  spoke  Scott  in  a  big  voice.  Atten- 
tion followed.  The  story  of  Aunt  Polly's  first  husband 
promised  to  be  interesting. 

Ruford  and  Lawrence  threw  on  a  big  log.  Crick, 
crack,  crack!  The  red  tongue  shot  upward,  consuming 
the  green  leaf  bough  ravenously;  the  two  young  men 
retired  to  their  places  and  Scott  began : 

"Aunt  Polly  was  dead  set  on  Jerry;  she  was  a  Cath- 
olic an'  he  was  a  Protestant;  I  alwus  thought  thet  was 
the  bone  of  contention  between  'm.  Jerry  was  alwus 
hanging  around  Polly,  and  Polly  was  the  kind  thet 
wanted  to  git  married.  She  hedn't  the  looks  thet  makes 
fellers  stand  round  an'  wait  their  turn,  but  she  hed  some 
of  the  woman  suffrage  quality  in  her  make-up.  So  it 
was  fixed  between  'm  to  git  married.  An'  Polly  come  the 
evening  before  the  send-off  to  invite  me  an'  Louisa. 
Wa'al,  she  talked  an'  talked,  presently  dropping  a  few 
remarks  thet  looked  uncertain,  an'  I  felt  a  sort  of  damp- 
ness in  the  air.  She  went  off  before  dark  an'  me  an' 
Louisa  set  an'  talked  about  the  coming  event,  both  of  us 
feeling  things  wa'n't  exactly  right.  Wa'al,  anyway, 
next  day,  me  an'  Louisa  dressed  an'  set  out  for  the 
wedding. 

"The  church  was  right  down  there  in  Pittston  an'  run 
by  a  mighty  good  little  German  priest,    Wa'al,  when  we 
got  there  me  an'  Louisa  was  the  only  envited.    Heving/ 
said  'Howdy !'  to  Jerry  an'  Polly,  who  hed  rode  up  in  a  \ 
hired  rig,  right  fancy-looking  as  a  woman  might  pick  ? 
out,  an'  was  hetching  as  we  come  along,  we  walked  enside  ' 
an'  took  our  seats  in  the  front  pew.     The  priest  come 
out ;  then  up  the  aisle  comes  Polly.    She  stood  stalk  still 
before  him  a  minute. 

"  'Vel/  he  says,  'vere  your  man  ?' 


90  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Polly  looked  red  in  the  face  an'  Louisa  nudged  me  an' 
begin  to  fan  herself,  though  the  day  wa'n't  hot. 

"  'I  can't  marry  ye'  vomans,  unless  ye  hev  a  man 
partner !'  said  the  priest. 

"  'He's  outside/  said  Polly,  'if  you  wait  a  minute/ 

"  'Oh,  I  can  vait/ 

"Polly  went  down  the  aisle  an'  presently  came  up  weth 
the  groom,  carrying  him — yes'm,  carrying  him  up  the 
aisle." 

At  this  unexpected  part  of  the  story,  Dorothy 
screamed,  and  somebody  cried: 

"Sh— sh " 

"Yes,  daughter,"  continued  Scott,  knocking  the  ashes 
from  his  cigar,  then  taking  two  or  three  puffs  at  the 
weed,  "she  carried  him  up  bodily  an'  set  him  down  care- 
ful. Wa'al,  the  good  little  priest  shook  his  head,  but,  'Vel, 
vel/  was  all  he  said.  I  would  hev  busted  a  suspender  if 
it  hedn't  bin  for  Louisa,  who  seemed  about  ready  to 
faint." 

Scott  paused,  allowing  his  audience  pleasurable 
anticipation. 

"And  they  were  married?"  inquired  Mr.  Dale. 

"Oh,  thet  was  jest  the  beginning.  The  priest  hed  to 
know  their  religion  an'  the  man  admitted  meekly  thet 
he  was  a  Protestant. 

"  'No,  you  ain't,'  snapped  Polly.  'I  baptized  you  last 
night  in  my  own  parlor.  Did  you  suppose  Jeremiah  Hod- 
kins,  thet  I  would  unite  myself  weth  a  heathen  ?'  'Vel, 
vel,  vel/  said  the  priest,  beginning  the  ceremony." 

Maithele  was  nearly  choking  with  the  ludicrousness  of 
the  situation,  but  she  held  her  handkerchief  to  her 
mouth. 

Scott  concluded  with  another  vigorous  pull  at  the 
weed: 


THE    BONFIKE  91 

"Jerry  never  did  seem  to  git  his  nerve  back.  He  died 
the  following  year,  an'  Timothy,  his  only  living  brother, 
set  up  to  the  widow." 

"Now,  Mr.  Scott,"  put  in  Aunt  Helen,  dubiously. 

"It's  a  fact,  Louisa  is  the  living  witness.  They  was 
married  in  the  same  church  by  the  same  priest — the  only 
difference  being  thet  the  second  marriage  was  witnessed 
by  a  lot  of  city  folks.  Tim  hed  leamt  from  Jerry's  ex- 
perience an'  was  baptized  reguler  the  day  before  the  cere- 
mony, an'  I'll  eat  my  hat  if  he  wa'n't  ahead  of  the 
bride,  standing  at  the  rail  waiting  for  her  to  come  up." 

"Cousin  Polly's  ears  ought  to  be  burning,"  said  Mrs. 
Scott,  as  the  young  men  plied  Scott  with  questions,  but 
Scott  could  not  be  made  to  deviate  in  the  least  from  the 
original  story,  declaring  that  he  had  retailed  the  facts 
substantially  as  they  were. 

"Well,  it's  a  good  one,"  said  Mr.  Dale;  "your  turn, 
Allan," 

But  Allan  passed  the  compliment  to  Ned. 

"Eeally,"  said  Lawrence,  "I  haven't  the  nerve  to  fall 
in  line  with  Scott,  but  I  did  have  an  experience  the  other 
day." 

Ned's  story  proceeded : 

"A  fellow  came  to  my  office;  he  was  rather  a  dapper 
chap,  and  explained  that  he  wanted  to  have  me  draw  up 
his  will.  He  had  a  premonition,  he  said,  of  an  untimely 
call.  I  told  him  that  I  had  very  little  experience  in  such 
matters,  but  that  my  secretary  would  introduce  him  to  a 
lawyer  on  the  next  floor,  who  would  attend  to  the  matter 
for  him. 

"  'But,  Mr.  Lawrence,'  he  expostulated,  Tiad  I  wanted 
a  lawyer  I  would  have  gone  to  one.  I  am  not  a  stranger 
in  the  city.'  He  fumbled  about  in  his  pocket  for  some- 
thing that  was  not  there;  and  I  meanwhile  studied  his 


93  OUK  BIGHT  TO  LOVE 

physiognomy  and  was  rather  shaken  to  discover  that  my 
visitor  was  a  lunatic " 

"Horrible  I"  cried  Dorothy,  off  guard.  "What  did  you 
do,  and  how  could  you  tell  ?" 

"Don't  push  him  over  the  brink,  daughter,"  exclaimed 
Scott,  nettled  at  the  interruption,  "he  hed  only  come  to 
discover — " 

"Yes,"  continued  Lawrence,  "to  discover  that  he  had 
me  in  his  power,  for  as  I  rose  from  the  desk,  telling  him 
that  I  would  return  in  a  moment,  he  took  me  rudely  by 
the  arm.  'Sit  down !'  he  hissed  from  between  his  teeth, 
and  before  I  knew  what  he  was  about,  a  pistol  was 
pointed  at  my  head." 

"Mercy !"  cried  Mrs.  Scott  and  Aunt  Helen  in  chorus. 

"Well,  you  may  be  sure  I  was  quiet  enough;  the  will 
was  drawn  up,  which  was  most  absurd.  He  bequeathed 
all  his  property  to  his  fiancee,  with  a  proviso;  she  was 
to  take  up  her  abode  in  a  lunatic  asylum." 

Some  one  asked : 

"But  how  did  you  get  rid  of  the  fellow?" 

"Just  before  the  last  line  was  scratched,  my  secretary 
opened  the  door  directly  back  of  the  lunatic.  I  wrote  on 
a  slip  of  paper :  'Lunatic,  quick,  help !'  I  managed  to 
pass  the  slip  to  him.  He  read  and  acted  promptly ;  and  a 
few  moments  later,  my  fellow  wore  manacles." 

"Whew!"  exclaimed  Scott. 

"A  nightly  story,"  sighed  Dorothy. 

"Why  nightly  ?"  asked  Lawrence. 

"She  means  grewsome,"  assisted  Maithele. 

"Thanks  awfully,"  said  Dorothy,  smiling  archly.  "So 
good  of  you,  Maithele;  I  didn't  like  to  explain  to  Mr. 
Lawrence  that  I  seldom  mean  what  I  say." 

And  Lawrence,  all  attention,  mentally  calculated  the 
leagues  to  a  woman's  heart. 


THE    BONFIRE  93 

"Talking  about  wills  reminds  me." 

"Hold  on  a  minute,  Silas,"  said  Mr.  Dale,  "here 
comes  Ben.  I  am  sure  he  has  an  appetizer.  He  will  not 
interrupt  if  a  story  is  on." 

Ben  rested  the  large  silver  tray  upon  a  small  table  in 
readiness  to  receive  it,  and  was  followed  in  short  order 
by  two  maids,  dainty  in  'my  lady's  maid'  livery,  who 
passed  the  Roman  punch  and  dainty  salad. 

When  the  collation  was  served  Dale  called  to  Scott : 

"We  are  ready,  Silas,  for  that  story," 

"Oh,  it  ain't  a  story,  jest  a  phase  of  valley  life." 

"Let's  have  it." 

The  story  was  unusually  good  and  at  its  close  Ben 
came  forth  with  a  waiter  of  beautiful  white  popcorn,  and 
the  fun  went  round. 

Allan  smiled  upon  Maithele.  How  sweet  it  was  to 
feast  his  eyes  upon  her  lovely  face  and  hear  the  joy  of 
her  low  laughter !  Yet,  marking  the  pensiveness  of  the 
eyes,  he  missed  the  light  that  had  passed. 

Pride  was  sustaining  her. 

He  might  have  crossed  over  and  seated  himself  be- 
side her,  as  Lawrence  had  vacated  the  place  to  help  Scott 
with  the  big  log,  but  just  as  his  intention  was  putting 
into  effect,  a  bit  of  popcorn  hit  him  on  the  head,  and, 
turning  in  the  direction  whence  it  came,  Dorothy  Dale 
was  smiling  guiltily. 

Dorothy  rightly  fancied  that  Lawrence  was  longing  for 
the  seat  beside  herself,  so  Allan  was  immediately  invited. 
Lawrence  was  having  hard  lines.  He  could  not  imagine 
how  he  had  fallen  in  his  lady's  estimation,  and  he  might 
have  hated  poor  Maithele  if  at  the  moment  he  had  known 
that  she  was  the  innocuous  cause. 

The  big  log  glowed  with  pictures  in  red,  and  Mrs. 
Scott,  drawing  the  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  said  some- 


94  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

thing  pretty  about  the  moon,  which  just  then  was  com- 
ing up  from  behind  the  Ledge,  throwing  a  mystic  loveli- 
ness over  hill  and  vale. 

Ben  brought  the  barrel,  and,  with  the  assistance  of 
Scott  and  Ruford  placed  it  in  the  center  of  the  fire. 

The  three  men  stood  back  from  the  blaze.  The  barrel 
was  to  end  the  entertainment. 

It  was  a  large,  fine  barrel  stuffed  with  damp  hay. 

Greedily  the  ravenous  flame  shot  upward;  it  caught 
in  an  instant,  but  the  damp  hay  tightly  packed  within 
did  not  ignite  at  once. 

Maithele's  face  illumined  with  mental  radiance, 
watching  the  white  and  black  smoke  curl  round  and 
round  the  staves,  with  intelligent  pursuit  that  suggested 
weird  and  fantastic  pictures  of  the  fabulous. 

"Look !"  she  cried,  the  wonderful  voice  mellowing  the 
hush  that  fell  upon  the  spectators. 

"The  white  and  the  black  clouds  are  the  Jinn.  See 
how  they  pursue  one  another !  There !  The  Evil  One  is 
in  the  lead,  he  is  going  to  annihilate  the  good  Jinnee. 
Oh,  Mr.  Scott,  of  what  does  that  great  ball  of  fire  remind 
you?" 

"Pass  on  to  Dick,  daughter;  it  ain't  anything  but 
blaze  to  me." 

Richard  Allan  said  something,  but  no  one  heard;  all 
were  intently  following  Maithele. 

It  was  a  wonderful  picture — the  white  and  black 
smoke-clouds  whirling  about  the  barrel,  ready  to  burst. 

Presently  the  white  cloud,  designated  as  the  good  Jinn, 
vanquished  the  black  cloud,  and  the  barrel  trembled,  as 
from  beneath  it  a  great  writhing  thing  grew  furiously 
voracious.  Aunt  Helen  caught  the  enthusiasm  of  her 
imaginative  charge,  as  the  straw  ignited,  and  the  mon- 
ster's tongue  shot  up  many  feet. 


THE    BOXFIRE  95 

"Pandora's  Box,  she  cried,  "for  which  the  Jinn  were 
contending,  and  the  good  spirit  has  won,  my  child;  he 
always  does."  And  while  she  spoke,  a  grating  sound 
was  distinctly  heard,  like  the  turning  of  a  key  in  a  rusty 
lock. 

"See,  the  box  opens,"  whispered  the  Southern  girl,  as 
the  creaking  ceased. 

"Amen !"  sighed  the  man  who  loved  her,  "then  Hope 
remains." 

But  Dorothy  was  not  to  be  outdone.  Scott  was  giving 
the  barrel  a  slight  push  with  a  long  stick. 

"  Pandora's  Box  !  Bah  !  Where  are  your  eyes,  people  ? 
It  is  the  Juggernaut  car  destroyed  by  an  American." 

"Bravo !"  Lawrence  ventured,  trying  to  find  her  eyes, 
but  they  were  fastened  upon  Scott,  who  said  with 
complaisance : 

"  It's  the  finest  part  of  the  ent'tainment.  Jest  all  keep 
your  eyes  on  thet  barrel."  And  as  they  gazed  in  wonder 
and  fascination,  it  parted. 

Long  irridescent  ribbons  bolted  high,  revealing  a 
greenish  marvel  in  frosty  shimmering  gold,  that  lived 
but  a  few  glorious  moments,  like  the  dreamer's  chateau 
En  Espagne,  falling  with  a  soft  whirr,  a  handful  of 
jewels,  on  the  picture  log ! 

Everybody  clapped. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scott  made  ready  to  depart,  but  the 
bullpup  would  not  be  aroused,  and  the  master  apologized 
for  his  behavior : 

"When  you  got  a  kid  dog  on  your  hands,  you  got  to 
humor  it  or  drown  it,  one." 

Dale  laughed,  resting  his  hand  on  Scott's  shoulder,  his 
thoughts  quickly  diverted  from  dogs,  romance  and  pic- 
turesque blazes  to  business. 

"You  think  Scott,  that  attorney  in  Wilkes-Barre " 


9G  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Hes  sense  Yes,  he  hes  some ;  but  you  better  hear  one 
on  him,"  pointing  in  Allan's  direction,  before  you  go 
ahead." 

And  he  lifted  his  voice. 

"Dick!" 

But  Allan  had  just  reached  Maithele's  side,  and  the 
world. was  lost.  Scott  smiled  approvingly,  throwing  a 
half  finished  cigar  into  the  bushes. 

"Thet's  a  case  of  spoons,"  he  remarked,  with  a  wink 
that  Mr.  Dale  did  not  comprehend. 

"The  worse  I  ever  see,"  he  repeated,  "but  thet  feller, 
can  beat  the  Wilkes-Barre  feller  in  the  fust  round.  I'll 
tell  you  one  on  him : 

"Last  summer  a  neighbor  of  mine  kilt  eight  or  ten 
hogs,  and  a  few  days  later  claimed  that  one  is  missing 
and  accused  one  of  the  neighbors  thet  helped  weth  the 
kelling  of  stealing  it. 

"It  was  a  black'n  white  hog.  The  accused  man  come 
to  me,  an'  I  says,  'Git  Dick  Allan  to  defend  you.'  So  he 
took  my  advice.  The  prosecutor  got  the  Wilkes-Barre 
attorney  mentioned. 

"  The  day  for  the  trial  came  off,  which  was  put  down 
for  2  o'clock.  Dick  saw  the  prosecuting  attorney  going 
into  a  eating-house  at  about  noon,  and  so  Allan  happened 
in  the  same  eating-house  about  a  minute  later. 

"They  shuck  hands  an'  swore  they  was  friends — honest 
an'  true  an'  thet  the  case  shouldn't  be  no  bar  to  good 
feelings.  The  drinks  was  set  up.  Dick  went  even  so  far 
as  to  pay  for  same. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  Dick  done  it,  but  he  managed  to 
slip  into  the  attorney's  overcoat  pocket  some  hair  of  a 
black  an'  white  hog  he  had  procured  the  day  before. 
Wa'al,  sir,  they  parted  friends  an'  half  hour  later  ap- 
peared in  the  court-room  as  enemies.  The  feller  from 


THE    BONFIRE  97 

Wilkes-Barre  made  an  eloquent  plea,  an'  rested.  An' 
more'n  me  in  thet  court-room  considered  Dick's  goose 
about  cooked.  Then  Allan  got  up.  Ye  mine,  he  don't 
hev'  time  for  small  talk,  but  he's  alwus  fair  an'  squar5  to 
his  party  when  he  takes  holt. 

"  He  expressed  his  regret  at  the  affair,  said  he  believed 
the  hull  thing  a  mistake,  thet  no  hog  was  stolen,  but  had 
been  et ;  thet  he  hedn't  a  doubt  thet  the  able  attorney  hed 
et  some  of  the  pork  himself,  an'  was  almost  ready  to 
venture  thet  he  hed  some  of  thet  hog  hair  in  his  over- 
coat pocket.  Whereupon  the  Wilkes-Barre  attorney  got 
excited  an'  said  it  wa'n't  so.  An'  he  went  further :  'Feel 
in  my  pockets  if  thet's  so !'  he  cried.  A  witness  standing 
handy  jerked  the  coat  off  the  peg. 

"Wa'al,  sir,  thet  witness  brought  up  the  black'n  white 
hog  hair  in  the  presence  of  the  court.  The  meeting  broke 
up,  an'  thet  feller" — pointing  to  Allan — "went  ahead!" 

No  one  heard  this  story  but  Mr.  Dale,  which  was  for- 
tunate ,  as  the  beau-ideal  of  a  young  girl  seldom  figures 
in  substantial  affairs  of  off-color. 

"Git  in,  git  in,"  said  Scott,  as  Ben  brought  the  rig 
around.  "I  guess,"  addressing  Allan,  "you  wouldn't  mine 
bonfires  for  eternity,  but  'taint  polite  to  stay  to  morning 
to  watch  'm  out." 

The  insinuation  touched. 

Maithele  and  Allan  had  only  spoken  a  few  words  to- 
gether. Dorothy  came  up  as  Scott  was  telling  the  court- 
room story  to  Mr.  Dale — Dorothy,  who  had  grown  sud- 
denly attached  to  Allan.  Allan  jumped  into  the  trap  and 
took  the  lines,  Mrs.  Scott  and  Euford  and  the  two  dogs 
on  the  back  seat.  Scott  waved  his  hat : 

"I'm  sorry  for  the  manners  of  the  bullpup;  he'll  be 
for  sale  to-morrow." 


CHAPTEK  XL 

THE  AFFAIR  IX  BACHELOR  QUARTERS. 

THE  two  weeks  that  followed  found  the  island  people 
entertaining. 

The  days  were  warm,  delightful;  and  on  the  12th, 
Aunt  Helen's  birthday,  a  4  o'clock  luncheon  was  served 
in  Hammock  Court. 

Dorothy  announced  to  Maithele  at  breakfast : 

"Ned.  Lawrence  will  be  up  for  the  evening  and  possi- 
bly you  will  be  interested  to  know  that  Eichard  Allan 
will  be  up  also.  I  have  a  letter  from  him  this  morning — 
oh,  yes,  he  begs  to  be  remembered."  And,  as  an  after 
thought  she  remarked,  lightly : 

"Eichard  is  such  a  dear!" 

Maithele  experienced  a  shock,  but  she  made  no  com- 
ment. Her  nerves,  however,  suffered  through  the  day,  a 
bit  of  antique  china  slipping  from  her  fingers  at 
luncheon. 

"Accidents  will  happen,"  said  Aunt  Helen,  smiling, 
and  Ben,  picking  up  the  fragments,  remarked : 

"It's  a  sure  sign,  Miss  Maithele,  you  going  to  see  your 
beau  t'night." 

Dorothy  clapped  her  hands. 

"Hear,  hear." 

But  Maithele's  heart  was  heavy.  She  did  not  under- 
stand Dorothy's  hilarious  spirits  and  readily  convinced 
herself  that  Dorothy  was  perhaps  developing  into  a  flirt. 

98 


AFFAIR     IX     BACHELOR     QUARTERS     99 

The  admiration  of  Xed  Lawrence  for  Dorothy  Dale 
was  very  apparent.  Was  Dorothy  leading  him  on  for  the 
fun  of  it?  Dorothy  was  engaged  to  Richard  Allan. 
Maithele  had  worked  the  problem  out  to  her  own  satis- 
faction. The  thing  that  troubled  her  most  was  Allan 
himself.  She  knew  that  his  declaration  for  herself  had 
not  been,  under  the  circumstances,  fair,  yet  she  was  glad, 
with  that  gladness  that  comes  of  confident  assurance  of 
love  reciprocated. 

Once  it  dawned  upon  her  that  his  fiancee  might  be 
some  other  girl.  How  the  thought  fired  her  brain !  She 
dismissed  the  thought,  and  again  she  recalled  how  em- 
phatically he  had  made  it  apparent  that  Dorothy  and 
herself  were  the  only  girls  for  whom  he  evinced  favor. 

He  had  been  to  Lecbaw-Hanna  twice  since  the  bonfire; 
she  had  seen  him  once,  only  for  a  few  moments,  hav- 
ing an  engagement  with  Ruford.  When  he  called  again 
she  was  spending  the  day  with  Mrs.  Scott. 

Maithele  fancied,  hoped,  she  had  proven  herself  suffi- 
ciently strong.  She  might  have  despised  herself  for  the 
smallest  exhibition  of  grief.  Haughtiness,  she  held  as  a 
cloak,  a  mask,  which  deceives  no  one  but  the  wearer.  Flir- 
tation would  certainly  have  been  an  evidence  of  pique. 
Her  position  was  difficult. 

After  luncheon  Mr.  Dale,  Lawrence  and  Allan  rowed 
the  party  in  small  boats  to  Falling  Springs.  The  boats 
returned  before  dusk  and  bright  faces  and  much  laughter 
proclaimed  Aunt  Helen's  birthday  a  success. 

Lawrence  and  the  others  had  gone  up  to  the  house. 
Allan  loitered  on  the  bank,  amusing  himself  with  pebbles 
which  he  hurled  with  malicious  delight  into  the  river, 
enjoying  the  sport. 

Dorothy,  who  had  come  down  the  bank  to  welcome  the 
boats,  abstractedly  followed  his  play  before  returning  up 


100  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

the  path,  but  he  caught  sight  of  her  and  called  out, 
hurrying  to  her  side : 

"You  are  always  evading  me,  Dorothy!"  And  when 
he  reached  her  side  he  spoke  audibly:  "Did  you  not 
write  that  you  would  be  very  glad  if  I  came  up  this 
evening?" 

Maithele,  an  unwilling  witness,  felt  no  surprise  in 
Dorothy's  response ;  it  was  the  acknowledgment ! 

"Aren't  you  clever?  Evading,  indeed!  Have  I  not 
watched  your  eyes  chasing  Maithele,  even  while  I  stood 
at  your  elbow " 

Enough!  She  could  not  avoid  this  much,  and  sud- 
denly it  dawned  upon  her  that  Dorothy  knew  she  was 
near.  Just  a  moment  before  she  had  been  singing — com- 
ing down  the  path.  She  stepped  into  the  shrubbery  as 
Allan  came  forward,  intending  to  retrace  her  steps,  for 
indeed,  she  did  not  know  that  he  was  still  on  the  bank. 
She  hurried  away  by  the  narrow  path  leading  to  the  rear 
of  the  house,  entered  the  kitchen  door,  and  flew  up  the 
back  stairway  to  her  room. 

Had  she  remained  another  moment  she  would  have 
heard  that  which  would  have  saved  her  the  sorrows  that 
followed. 

Allan  did  not  tell  Dorothy  of  his  engagement  to  Clara 
Lansing,  but  he  spoke  in  terms  so  glowing  of  Maithele 
that  Dorothy  felt  guilty  for  having  detained  him  so  con- 
stantly. Of  course  it  all  flashed  upon  her  now  that  poor 
Lawrence  had  never  been  over-attentive  to  Maithele,  that 
it  was  jealousy  on  her  part  to  imagine  that  Maithele 
referred  to  him. 

Allan  watched  for  Maithele  as  the  shadows  deepened ; 
but  a  neuralgic  headache  proved  the  good  excuse,  so  he 
determined  at  once  to  monopolize  Dorothy,  who  did  not 
discourage  him;  on  the  contrary,  she  smiled  upon  him 


AFFAIR    IN    BACHELOR    QUARTERS   101 

when  Lawrence  was  in  sight,  and  seemed  thoroughly  con- 
tent with  his  companionship. 

Allan  was  extremely  entertaining.  He  was  not  the 
jolly  sort  like  Lawrence,  nor  had  he  any  of  the  accom- 
plishments that  made  Lawrence  the  greatly-sought. 

Lawrence  had  talents  fetching  with  the  set,  that  makes 
the  evanescence  of  society.  He  was  proficient  with  banjo 
and  guitar,  and  possessed  besides,  a  fine  tenor  voice;  he 
likewise  excelled  in  athletics,  and  was  accredited  at  his 
club  a  champion  of  golf  and  a  prize  winner  as  well. 

Allan  possessed  none  of  these  accomplishments. 

He  was  a  practical,  forceful  man  of  affairs;  poetic 
within  his  deeper  self  and  wonderfully  endowed  with 
that  marvelous  puissant  quality,  personal  magnetism.  It 
was  this  force  that  created  the  potent  influence,  the  in- 
tense expression,  that  made  his  personality,  so  irresistible 
in  court-room  syllogism,  drawing-room  eloquence,  or 
veranda  persiflage.  And  the  deep,  poetic  undercurrent  in 
his  speech,  gliding  often  into  delightful  metaphor,  pro- 
duced a  fascination  difficult  to  withstand. 

"Tower  of  strength,"  he  said  to  a  woman  one  day,  who, 
hanging  upon  his  verdict,  unburdened  her  soul,  deserv- 
edly meriting  scorn.  She  left  his  presence,  hurrying 
home  through  the  pelting  rain  with  uplifted  heart  and  a 
purpose  of  amendment,  braver,  better,  to  the  end  of  her 
days. 

Few,  however,  were  acquainted  with  the  poetic  side  of 
his  nature.  He  had  learned  in  that  school  of  human 
opinions  to  guard  sentiment  as  a  thing  apart. 

Clara  Lansing  had  been  drawn  to  him;  he  was  the 
magnet,  yet,  she  charged  him  with  a  lack  of  "feeling," 
which  proof  divorced  her  by  the  natural  law. 

Dorothy,  a  wholesome,  intelligent  young  woman, 
naturally  found  entertainment  in  the  society  of  Richard 


102  OUE  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

Allan.  But  on  this  particular  evening  her  charming  at- 
tentiveness  meant  annoyance  to  the  other  individual. 

If  her  conscience  smote  her — listening  to  Allan's  eulo- 
gies on  Maithele — she  quieted  conscience  with  the  benefi- 
cent pat  that  the  future  happiness  of  Mr.  Ned  Lawrence 
might  be  inestimably  benefited  by  the  lesson,  and  she 
excused  her  own  conduct  with  the  apology  that  owing  to 
the  neuralgic  headache,  the  desired  companion  was  not 
available. 

When  Mr.  Dale  had  finished  the  game  with  Lawrence 
and  discussed  mines  and  miners  to  a  finish,  he  retired, 
and  Lawrence,  finding  himself  alone,  possessed  himself 
of  a  guitar  which  he  discovered  in  the  music-room,  seat- 
ing himself  at  the  far  end  of  the  veranda. 

Allan  at  once  noticed  Dorothy's  inattention,  when  a 
few  moments  before  she  had  seemed  interested  enough 
in  the  yarn  he  was  spinning.  He  got  upon  his  feet,  with 
a  frivolous  remark  intended  for  the  ear  of  Lawrence,  who 
came  forward  softly  singing  the  refrain  of  an  old-time 
ballad. 

"At  last,"  sighed  Lawrence,  watching  the  vanishing 
rival.  One  or  two  flourishes  and  the  strumming  ceased. 
Standing  the  guitar  against  the  veranda  post,  he  dropped 
restfully  into  the  deep-cushioned  seat  just  vacated. 

"That  fellow,"  with  a  nod  in  the  direction  of  the  re- 
treating figure,  "hasn't  the  sense " 

"Pardon,"  she  corrected;  "it  is  sense  always  that  holds 
me." 

She  lifted  her  fan,  seemingly  to  hide  the  yawn ;  closed 
it  again. 

The  hot  blood  rushed  to  Ned's  brow,  and  he  looked 
upon  her  darkly. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  all 
evening?"  she  smiled. 


AFFAIR    IN     BACHELOR     QUARTERS   103 

He  did  not  respond. 

"Awfully  late,  is  it  not?" 

"I  will  not  detain  you,"  he  said  sharply,  getting  upon 
his  feet. 

"Considerate  of  you!" 

He  followed  inside,  fury,  indignation,  possessing  him. 

She  waited  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  he  came  into 
the  reception  hall  again. 

"Good  night,"  he  said;  "I  am  going  over  to  the 
Quarters." 

"So  soon?" 

He  was  silent,  and  she  ventured,  with  a  smile  he  was 
too  angry  to  see : 

"I  suppose  you  merely  came  inside  to  put  the  guitar 
in  its  place.  Awfully  nice  of  you." 

Her  hand  rested  upon  the  balustrade  and  he  put  his 
own  upon  it  a  trifle  roughly.  Gentleness  might  have 
won.  Had  he  taken  the  hand  as  was  his  wont,  he  might 
have  discovered  the  wonderful  way  to  a  woman's  heart; 
but  the  rude  detention  declared  proprietary  rights,  which 
produced  instant  hauteur. 

"I  will  not  detain  you "  he  began. 

"Which  remark  you  made  an  hour  ago." 

Her  head  was  high. 

"  See  here,  Dorothy,  you  are  treating  me " 

He  got  no  further. 

The  door  opened  at  the  rear  of  the  hall  and  the  flash 
of  a  lantern  arrested  their  attention ;  shuffling  feet  came 
down  the  hall. 

Ben  halted,  observing  the  two.  Ben  might  have  re- 
tired immediately  by  the  same  door,  but  Dorothy's  voice 
made  duty  clear. 

"Ben,  I  was  about  to  ring  for  you."    And  to  Lawrence : 


104  OUK  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Good-night ;  I  trust  that  you  find  Ben  attentive — he  is 
waiting  now  to  escort  you  across  the  lawn." 

With  old-time  ideas  of  the  server's  etiquette,  Ben 
swung  his  lantern  back  and  forth  as  he  passed  into  the 
night,  and  a  few  seconds  later  Lawrence  brushed  him 
aside  as,  with  long,  swinging  stride,  he  gained  Bachelor 
Quarters. 

Lawrence  found  Allan  toasting  his  feet  at  a  small 
wood  fire. 

The  cabin  consisted  of  four  rooms — two  above  and  two 
below — no  hall  between,  but  the  room  that  Allan  occu- 
pied, possibly  because  of  dainty  things  hung  upon  the 
walls  and  arranged  in  odd  ways  claimed  the  distinction 
of— "the  den." 

From  this  room,  the  funny  little  stairway  leading  to 
the  upper  rooms  added  picturesque  charm.  Besides  the 
lounge  stacked  with  pillows,  and  the  curtained  triangle 
behind  which  was  the  toilet  table,  the  room  con- 
tained a  melodeon,  and  a  table  littered  with  magazines 
and  papers. 

Above  the  desk  on  a  Dutch  rack,  a  few  choice  volumes. 
It  was  a  cozy  cabin  in  which  the  men  delighted  and  the 
women  made  delightful  when  the  men  were  away.  Some- 
how the  room  had  always  fallen  to  Allan,  and  he  lounged 
in  it  contentedly,  notwithstanding  that  it  was  necessar- 
ily a  sort  of  passageway — as  the  two  rooms  above  could 
be  gained  only  by  passing  through  it.  Lawrence  might 
have  reached  his  room  by  the  rear  door,  but  habit  led 
him  to  the  door  of  the  den. 

"You're  in  luck,"  spoke  Allan,  meaning  anything. 

"I  think  you  tried  yours  before  I  came,"  was  the 
sullen  response. 

Lawrence  was  stalking  through,  evidently  bent  on 
gaining  his  own  room. 


AFFAIR     IN     BACHELOR     QUARTERS   105 

"Indeed;  and  your  informant?" 

The  introductory  remark  checked  his  retreat. 

Lawrence  was  quite  distrait  with  Dorothy's  behavior 
and  Allan's  question  had  a  disagreeable  effect. 

"Not  Silas  Scott/'  was  the  chance  retort  that  sent  a 
bullet  in  the  opposite  direction. 

Big,  honest,  Silas  Scott  had  patted  Allan  on  the  back 
that  very  evening,  insinuating: 

"  If  it  ain't  Maithele  it  must  be  Dorothy,"  and  chuck- 
ling, "you  be  dividin'  attentions." 

As  Allan  recalled  the  speech,  Lawrence  faltered,  his 
hand  upon  the  latch  of  the  adjoining  room,  something 
stirring  his  thoughts.  He  resolved  to  probe. 

Was  the  usurper  appropriating  the  inalienable 
possession  ? 

Pushing  a  chair  over  to  the  table,  he  fairly  threw  him- 
self into  it,  deluded  with  the  idea  that  Allan  was  smitten 
with  Dorothy.  And  so,  the  complication  which  started 
upon  a  hay  wagon  brought  about  the  entanglement  and 
development. 

Cognizant  of  the  near  approach  of  Allan's  marriage, 
he  resented  the  interference;  thus,  it  became  incumbent 
upon  himself  to  bring  Mr.  Richard  Allan  to  a  sense  of 
his  obligation,  while,  through  that  mist  whose  common 
appellation  is  infatuation,  and  wherein  the  smooth  road 
becomes  the  dark,  tangled  way,  Allan  in  turn  imagined 
that  every  man  who  fixed  his  eyes  upon  Maithele  became 
forever  after  her  willing  slave.  Yet,  he  was  not  jealous 
of  Lawrence ;  he  had  no  real  cause ;  he  was  merely  irri- 
tated, having  failed  to  deliver  the  explanation  due 
Maithele — which  brought  him  to  the  island. 

Ben,  who  had  entered  the  cabin  almost  upon  Ned's 
footsteps,  emerged  from  the  rear  room.  Turning  up  the 


106  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

wick  of  Allan's  lamp,  he  mumbled  something  about  the 
chilliness  of  nights  in  "Penns'vanie." 

"Why  don't  you  go  back  to  the  South  where  the  nights 
are  warm?"  growled  Lawrence,  irritated  with  the  world 
at  large. 

The  lamp  fluttered  and  Ben's  attention  was  for  a  mo- 
ment diverted. 

"I  ain't  bossed  by  nobody  'cept  Miss  Maithele;  she's 
the  only  female  'cept  the  Angel  Gabriel " 

"Gabriel  is  not  a  woman,  Ben,"  cut  in  Allan  gently. 

"Who  say  so?  Ain't  I  seen  the  Lord's  trump'ter  in 
pictu'es?  Ain't  I  seen  her  flying  through  the  air  with 
that  trumpet  and  her  golden  hair  flowing  and  her 
spangly  tawlton  skirt  a-trailing?" 

Allan  smiled ;  the  other  was  in  a  mood ;  and  the  pause 
that  followed  was  broken  by  the  fall  of  something  heavy 
upon  the  floor. 

"Well,  how  come  I  can't  walk  acrost  a  room  without 
running  agin  things  ?" 

It  is  not  fair  to  accuse  Ben  of  intentional  clumsi- 
ness; the  swords,  relics  of  that  great  family  squabble — 
four  decades  passed,  had  been  rather  well  secured.  They 
fell  from  the  wall  all  the  same,  and  Ben  laid  them  care- 
fully upon  the  table. 

"Don't  like  to  fool  weth  these  here  things,"  he  said; 
"seen  too  many  white  gentl'men  kilt  with  'm  down  in 
Kentuck.  Inordinate  hankering  for  one  and  the  same 
lady  by  two  or  more  gentl'men  an'  these  things  get  a 
polish." 

"I  thought  it  was  the  bowie-knife  or  the  pistol  down 
there?"  said  Lawrence. 

But  Ben  missed  the  scurrilous  charge,  turning  hastily 
to  the  door,  and,  before  the  next  word  was  spoken,  the 
sound  of  his  retreating  steps  died  upon  the  night. 


Handling  one  of  the  swords,  a  critical  eye  upon  the 
keen  edge,  Allan  spoke: 

"  Girls  use  these  toys  now-a-days " 

"  Because  men  lack  courage,"  was  the  frosty  comment. 

Testing  the  steel,  Allan  ventured,  quietly: 

"Men  lack  courage?  Would  you  like  to  test  mine?" 
There  was  no  anger  in  the  challenge,  only  the  desire  for 
sport,  but  Lawrence  misinterpreted  the  light  in  Allan's 
eyes  and  answered  laconically : 

"In  the  South — before  the  war — and  even  to-day, 
in  some  parts  of  Europe,  that  sort  of  thing  is  the  defence 
of  honor.  In  this  part  of  the  country  it  has  been,  and  is, 
the  instrument  of  crime." 

Allan  stared  coldly,  his  eyes  taking  on  a  steel-gray  ex- 
pression; a  sort  of  cynicism  dropped  about  the  corners 
of  the  mouth.  The  influence  of  a  warmer  clime  was 
upon  him — the  girl  he  loved  was  not  far  away. 

"A  moment  ago  you  declared  that  girls  use  these  toys 
because  men  lack  courage,  and  now  the  defence  is  the 
charge  of  crime ;  you  must  have  had  my  lady's  mitten  for 
a  sweet  good-night." 

"Your  lady's  mitten?" 

The  gauntlet  fell  at  Allan's  feet,  yet,  it  was  an  inoffen- 
sive magazine  that  chanced  too  near  his  hand  that  sped 
across  the  room. 

"Your  lady's  mitten,  indeed,"  emphasizing.  "Ha,  ha, 
I  hardly  need  the  sword  to  test  your  honor ;  you — you — 
haven't  any." 

One  is  not  prepared  for  the  sudden  thunderclap  out  of 
a  clear  sky ;  but  the  crash  had  hardly  died  upon  Allan's 
ear  before  he  was  upon  his  feet. 

"Take  that  back,"  he  said,  in  the  unmistakable  tone. 

But  instead,  Lawrence  repeated,  force  and  menace 
marking  each  word. 


108  OUK  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Honor!    I  reiterate  sir,  you  haven't  any." 

They  were  facing  as  they  spoke,  and  Allan's  hand  was 
fastened  upon  the  sword.  There  was  no  misconstruing, 
the  aspersion  was  direct. 

"Take  that  back,"  he  cried  in  a  low,  thrilling  voice; 
"take  that  back,  or — I  might  forget  and  run  you 
through." 

Lawrence  laid  upon  the  other  weapon,  testing  its 
strength. 

Allan  had  not  moved  a  muscle,  but  his  chest,  slightly 
heaving,  gave  evidence  of  tumult  within.  Tall,  erect, 
cold,  he  faced  his  opponent,  one  hand  forcefully  behind 
his  back,  the  other  clinching  the  weapon. 

"Not  here,  we  might  go  over  to  the  Ledge,"  said  Allan. 
"We  are  guests  in  this  house." 

There  is  no  point  of  attack  so  keen  as  that  which 
flaunts  admonishment. 

Lawrence  walked  over  to  the  window. 

"Where  is  that  black  idiot?"  he  blurted  forth,  looking 
into  the  night.  "We  shall  need  a  lantern." 

"No  great  hurry.  In  an  hour  the  moon  will  be  up 
and " 

"You  would  request  her  father  as  a  second/' 

"Her  father?  If  you  mean  his  spirit,  I  would  prefer 
some  one  more  tangible.  Miss  Burton's  father  is  dead." 

"Who  in  the  devil  is  talking  about  Miss  Burton  ?" 

"She  seems  to  be  the  point  of  honor?" 

Lawrence  had  thrown  himself  into  a  chair,  his  eyes 
sullenly  bent  upon  the  floor,  but  now  he  lifted  his  head 
and  stared  at  Allan.  And  while  he  stared  a  swift  illumi- 
nation dispersed  the  ugly  cloud  that  hung  in  his  vision, 
not  one  day,  but  since  the  night  of  the  bonfire.  The 
truth  dawned  upon  him  so  suddenly  that  he  fell  all  in  a 


AFFAIR    IN    BACHELOR    QUARTERS   109 

heap,  and  in  the  joy  of  discovery  he  forgot  the  point  of 
honor. 

Allan  returned  the  stare  with  more  kindness  than 
Lawrence  deserved. 

"Well,  it  is  too  rich  !"  Lawrence  laughed,  but  laughter 
jarred  in  the  room.  Allan's  brow  clouded.  Merriment 
is  not  always  convincing. 

"You — you  didn't  think  I — ?  No,  Allan,  I  never  have 
given  Miss  Burton  a  thought." 

Allan  placed  the  sword  upon  the  table. 

"Shucks"  was  the  sententious  comment  of  Ben,  as  he 
dropped  heavily  from  the  low  veranda,  "Yanks  ain't 
wo'th  powder  an'  shot  for  fencing.  They  had  a  cause, 
but  I  guess  it  didn't  hold  with  the  arg'ment." 

Ben  had  viewed  the  scene  in  the  lighted  room  through 
the  open  window.  As  he  disappeared  into  the  night,  Law- 
rence, who  had  begun  pacing  the  room,  extended  his 
hand  to  Allan. 

"Forgive  me — Dick,  I  was  hasty." 

"Rather,"  said  Allan,  his  voice  calm  and  even,  "Love 
that  is  pure  is  always  honorable.  Your  attitude  a  mo- 
ment ago  was  unpardonable.  Admit  jealousy,  and  you 
are  forgiven." 

A  smile  flitted  across  his  face;  a  soft  light  came  into 
his  e}res ;  he  continued : 

"Notwithstanding  that  I  am  engaged  to  Clara  Lan- 
sing," hesitatingly,  "I" — holding  his  head  with  a  proud, 
truthful  defiance,  "I  love,  worship  Maithele  Burton." 
Lawrence  withdrew  his  hand. 

"And  you  consider  yourself  honorable?" 

"Hold — the  explanation " 

But  Lawrence  cut  in. 

"A  man  who  is  about  to  marry  one  woman,  vowing 
love  for  the  other  ?" 


110  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"My  engagement  with  Clara  Lansing  was  a  mistake, 
a  mistake  which  will  rectify  itself." 

"Was?    Why  man,  your  engagement  is  announced." 

The  nails  went  sharply  into  Allan's  flesh. 

"Bah,"  laughed  Allan  nervously,  "bah !" 

"You  deny  it?" 

"Most  emphatically." 

Lawrence  went  into  the  next  room  and  Allan  heard 
him  rummaging  and  moving  about;  presently  he 
bolted  in. 

"Here  it  is,"  flourishing  a  copy  of  a  society  sheet. 
Turning  the  pages,  his  rapid  glance  went  up  and  down 
the  lines.  "  I  saw  it,  I  am  sure — yes,  here !  Attention, 
please : 

"  'The  engagement  between  Miss  Clara  Lansing,  niece 
of  John  R.  Lansing,  and  Mr.  Richard  C.  Allan,  promi- 
nent lawyer  of is  announced ;  the  wedding  takes 

place  in  October.' " 

Lawrence  threw  the  paper  upon  the  table,  but  the 
challenge  in  his  eyes  fell  before  the  man  who  had 
sunken  hopelessly  into  a  chair. 

Allan's  head  was  down,  his  arms  stretched  upon  the 
table — prostrate. 

Lawrence,  broad  and  sympathetic,  could  not  under- 
stand the  sudden  collapse — but  he  felt  instinctively  that 
romance  was  ending  and  tragedy  begun. 

"Dick,"  going  up  to  Allan  and  putting  his  hand  upon 
his  shoulder.  "I'm  sorry — I — take  back  all  I  said.  I'm 
awfully  sorry — if  I  can  help  ?" 

Allan's  head  swayed  from  side  to  side  with  monoton- 
ous motion.  He  did  not  speak  at  once,  and  Lawrence 
waited  patiently. 

"I  guess  it's  all  up  with  me.     Of  course,"  speaking 


AFFAIR  IN  BACHELOR  QUARTERS  111 

with  new  resolve,  "you  were  right — the  way  you  looked 
at  it.  It  is  clear  enough  now." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  interrupted  Lawrence;  "say  no 
more  about  it.  I'm  a  cad,  dad  take  it !  Of  course  you 
meant  to  do  the  right  thing." 

Lawrence  moved  a  chair  toward  the  table,  and  pres- 
ently Allan  spoke.  The  story  opened  with  the  visit  to 
Kentucky.  He  told  of  the  house  in  the  blue  grass  coun- 
try, with  its  big  pillars,  wide  verandas  and  gas  chande- 
lier jutting  out  from  the  center  wall,  the  garden 
redolent  with  many  blooms,  the  old  turnpike  road 
leading  to  the  violin  master's  house;  the  fashionable 
boarding-school  that  had  its  name  in  gold  letters  over 
the  door;  and  the  theater  where  the  pupils'  recital  was 
given.  He  told  of  his  return,  John  R.  Lansing's  kind- 
ness, and  how,  in  the  most  inexplicable  way,  he  had 
found  himself  engaged  to  Clara  Lansing.  He  told  of 
meeting  Maithele  again,  touching  lightly  upon  the  moon- 
light revelation.  And  ere  the  story  finished  the  jewels  in 
God's  clock  disappeared  one  by  one,  and  with  the  final 
word  the  great  lid  of  that  awful  timepiece  noiselessly 
closed. 

It  was  dawn ! 

"She  is  the  pearl,"  he  said  in  the  good-night  to  Law- 
rence; "every  man  is  entitled  to  the  love  of  one  good 
woman.  There  must  be  something  tangible,  a  substance, 
personality,  to  which  one's  lifted  homage  shall  be  paid." 

"Amen !"  sighed  Lawrence. 

Allan  walked  with  Lawrence  to  the  door  joining  his 
own  room. 

"I  don't  blame  you  at  all,"  said  Lawrence,  "indeed  I 
don't — I  was  jealous — furious !  If  I  had  been  entangled 
with  another  girl  when  I  met  Dorothy,  I — might  have 
done  the  same,  perhaps ;  I  might,  indeed." 


113  OUE  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

The  door  opened — closed.  Allan  gave  his  attention  to 
the  lamp,  he  tried  to  raise  the  wick ;  the  oil  was  spent ; 
the  light  flickered — died  !  And  the  fire  in  the  grate,  only 
sufficient  at  best  to  bring  cheeriness  to  the  room,  had 
gone  out  entirely.  He  leaned  heavily  upon  the  mantel 
shelf,  sighed,  and  presently  turned  to  his  couch.  But 
as  his  head  touched  the  pillow,  something  scratched 
upon  the  window-pane.  The  grating  sound  irritated.  He 
got  up,  walked  over  to  the  window,  raised  the  sash  a 
few  inches. 

A  long,  slim  thing,  barely  discernible  in  the  approach- 
ing dawn,  crawled  upon  the  sill. 

"Come  in  worm,"  he  said;  "the  early  bird  will  get 
you."  And  when  at  last  he  slept,  he  dreamed  that  a 
cricket  sang  upon  the  hearth. 


CHAPTEE  XII. 

IF  LOYALTY  IS  TO  BE  THE  BOND. 

BETWEEN  the  men  who  played  with  swords,  and  the 
women  who  tempered  the  steel,  the  dews  of  morning 
lingered  long  beyond  the  parting  hour. 

A  rose — a  good-by,  and  an  incoherent  message,  and 
Allan  was  off.  Dorothy  was  kind;  Lawrence  lingered, 
and  he  held  her  hands — lovely  hands,  white  and  dimpled. 
And,  presently,  when  the  confession  was  over  and  the 
absolution  dispensed,  he  seized  an  advantage,  her  closed 
lids  refusing  to  witness  the  passion  his  noble  countenance 
betrayed.  But  he  held  her  in  his  strong  arms  until  her 
eyes,  opening  wide,  answered  deeply  the  question  of  his 
throbbing  heart. 

And  when  the  boat  pushed  off,  she  entered  the  house, 
her  cheeks  June  roses  and  the  joy  that  was  to  last 
through  long,  happy  years  beaming  in  her  sweet  face. 
In  such  tender  mood  she  was  hardly  prepared  for  the 
turn  affairs  had  taken. 

As  she  reached  the  staircase  she  encountered  Maithele 
— a  wrathful  figure  enveloped  in  a  pink  lounging  robe, 
who  flew  at  her  breathlessly. 

"I  heard  every  word — I  couldn't  run — I  couldn't  get 
out  of  hearing.  I  came  down — I  thought  they  were 
gone — I  was  right  behind  that  portiere.  I  heard  every 
word — every  word  I" 

Filled  with  delicious  happenings,  Dorothy  did  not 
realize  that  the  scene  had  shifted. 

113 


114  OUB  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"I  am  ashamed  of  you,"  the  pink  tyrant  went  on. 
Dorothy  stared. 

"You  have  no  conception  of  a  man's  feelings — you 
think  only  of  yourself.  It  is  your  vanity — your  pride — 
your  ambition  to  lead,  to  be  admired." 

"What  are  you  talking  about,"  Dorothy  inquired  at 
length. 

"I  am  talking  about  you — you,  and  the  shameful  way 
you  have  treated  Richard  Allan." 

"Richard  Allan !  You  were  behind  the  portiere  when 
he  said  good-by?" 

"No;  I  came  as  he  left.  I  was  going  to  the  music- 
room,  thinking  the  men  had  gone,  when  I  caught  sight  of 
Ned  Lawrence — poor  fellow — waiting  his  turn;  and  of 
course,  as  there  was  no  other  escape,  I  just  had  to  hide." 
She  pointed  to  the  drapery  that  hung  to  the  left  of  the 
staircase. 

Dorothy  broke  into  a  merry  laugh,  which  only  incensed 
the  irate  girl. 

"You  are  a  flirt,  a  wicked,  wicked  flirt." 

Malthele  grew  in  height  as  she  delivered  herself. 

"You  shall  not  break  your  engagement  with  Richard 
Allan ;  I  say  you  shall  not !"  cried  Maithele. 

"Engagement?  Oh,  oh,  if  you  don't  stop  your 
harangue  I'll  die;  oh,  oh,"  laughing  and  holding  her 
hand  to  her  side,  "what  a  figure  you  cut  in  your  wrath 
and  pink  gown.  Richard,  dear  Richard!"  she  mocked, 
"and  my  beloved  Ned  hardly  out  of  hearing." 

"You  wicked  girl.  Don't  you  remember  the  minister's 
sermon  last  Sabbath;  don't  you  remember  what  he 
said?" 

"No,  I  don't.    Life  is  too  short  for  sermons." 

"He  said,"  continued  Maithele,  "that  a  flirt  is  one  of 
the  gates  of  hell." 


IF  LOYALTY  IS  TO  BE  THE  BOND     115 

Dorothy's  laughter  instantly  ceased.  The  girl  before 
her,  all  at  once,  seemed  very  real ;  but  she  could  not  find 
the  right  words  to  say.  She  did  not  have  much  time  for 
reflection,  however ;  Maithele  broke  out  again. 

"You  shall  marry  Eichard  Allan;  you  shall,  or  I'll 
become  your  stepmother  and  beat  you." 

Mechanically,  Dorothy's  hand  moved  to  her  brow, 
pushing  back  imaginary  strands  of  dark  hair. 

There  is  something  startling,  ungraspable,  in  the  sud- 
den appearance  in  the  new  aspect  of  one  whom  we  have 
always  known  and  seemingly  understood.  She  recalled 
Allan's  parting  words,  and  looked  about,  wondering 
what  had  become  of  the  rose.  With  her  own  happiness 
so  sweet  and  new,  a  great  sympathy  went  out  to  the 
girl,  who,  at  last  wearied  out,  had  thrown  herself  into  the 
big,  kid  chair,  and  she  recalled  Allan's  troubled  counte- 
nance as  she  seated  herself  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  in 
which  Maithele  had  dropped. 

Women  say  bitter  things  to  each  other  sometimes, 
without  meaning  or  anger.  Maithele's  tirade  did  not 
impress  Dorothy  as  containing  bitterness,  and,  as  she  had 
never  seen  Maithele  so  terribly  wrought,  she  bethought 
her  that  possibly  she  might  straighten  the  difficulty  by 
gentle  probing. 

"I  would  not  like,  little  sister,  to  loom  up  in  your 
vision,  or  anybody's  vision,  as  a  gate  of  Hades,  and  I 
hardly  think  I  would  submit  to  a  beating  even  from  so 
charming  a  stepmother."  Dorothy  spoke  slowly.  "Dis- 
abuse your  mind  on  the  subject  of  Kichard  Allan.  I 
never  for  a  moment  loved  him,  though  I  will  admit,  I 
tried  to  make  you  jealous  once  or  twice." 

"Xever  loved  him?" 

Maithele's  eyes  questioned  as  Dorothy  proceeded : 

"I  have  known  always  that  he  loved  you;  but,  little 


116  OUK  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

sister,  why  did  you  not  confide  in  me?  Have  you 
quarreled  ?  He  was  so  depressed  this  morning — and,  oh, 
yes,  what  was  it  he  said?  Yes,  I  remember — he  said: 
'That  you  knew — I  knew,  everybody  knew.'  And  then 
he  gave  me  a  rose  for  you — oh,  dear,  but  he  did  look 
miserable !" 

The  rose  had  been  trampled ;  but  Maithele  discovered 
and  pounced  upon  it. 

"You  see,  Dorothy;  I  heard  you  both  conversing  last 
evening " 

"Why,  of  course;  I  knew  you  were  in  the  path,  silly, 
and  I  wanted  to  tease.  He  didn't  do  a  thing,  but  bore 
me  nearly  to  death  talking  about  you." 

A  pained  expression  shadowed  Maithele's  face,  and 
her  voice  fell. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  am  saying;  but  you  see " 

Maithele  twisted  the  lace  jabot  of  the  pink  gown  with 
little  regard;  it  was  nearly  reduced  to  a  rag.  Dorothy 
interfered,  as  Maithele  concluded : 

"You  see,  I  didn't  know  he  was  engaged  to  another 
until  he  told  me." 

"Told  you  ?    And  to  whom,  please  ?" 

"There  is  nothing  between  us — nothing/'  Maithele 
walked  over  to  the  staircase,  turning  to  Dorothy  with 
her  hand  on  the  balustrade. 

"I  don't  mind  it  at  all.  I  was  afraid  it  was  you,  Doro- 
thy, and,  of  course,  I  would  love  you  always,  even  if  you 
loved  him,  but" — with  the  semblance  of  a  smile — "the 
other  girl ;  I  can  just  hate  her !" 

"Yet  you  don't  care  at  all,  at  all?" 

Maithele  reached  the  first  platform;  a  window  open 
wide  had  upon  its  sill  a  row  of  potted  plants,  white  and 
pink  geraniums  in  bloom. 

"I  am  not  ashamed,"  said  Maithele,  plucking  a  flower, 


IF  LOYALTY  IS  TO  BE  THE  BOND     117 

"because  there  is  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  I  have 
never  loved  any  one  else.  Love — "  she  held  the  flower 
out  admiringly,  her  head  a  trifle  to  one  side — "is  the 
divinity  of  the  soul,  and  when  a  woman  bestows  such  love 
which  is  absolute  faithfulness — the  purity  of  soul,  she 
bestows  all  the  great  God  has  given  her  to  bestow." 

She  looked  straight  into  Dorothy's  eyes,  and  defiance 
passed;  her  face  illumined  with  that  wonderful  beauty 
that  is  a  definite  expression  of  greatness  within. 

"I  do  not  understand  the  obligation  that  makes  bind- 
ing and  irrevocable  a  man's  or  a  woman's  mistake." 

"-Maithele!  And  you  infer  that  a  man  may  win  a 
girl's  love  and  yet  be  in  no  way  bound  to  marry  her!" 
spoke  Dorothy. 

"To  save  both  from  cruel  thraldom " 

"He  goes  off,"  cut  in  Dorothy,  "with  the  girl  he 
loves?" 

"The  other,"  answered  Maithele,  "would  be  happier 
without  him — no  matter  what  fate  might  be  hers,  it 
could  not  be  so  cruel  as  to  be  tied  to  one  who  could  not 
love  her." 

Her  eyes,  sad  and  earnest,  held  Dorothy,  and  her  voice, 
always  melodious,  dropped  into  a  minor  key  as  she  went 
on  slowly : 

"Our  Eight  to  Love  must  exist  if  loyalty  is  to  be  the 
bond." 

"Yet  it  does  seem  cruel  to  toss  a  girl  over  because  a 
man  chances " 

"Not  chances — discovers." 

"Discovers,  if  you  like,  the  real  life  partner  at  the 
eleventh  hour  ?" 

"How  would  you  act  if  put  to  the  test,  Dorothy  ?" 

"I  hope  I  may  be  too  clever  to  arrive  at  the  test." 

"Exactly,  my  dear,  because  you  are  the  right  sort." 


118  OUE  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

Instinctively,  Maithele's  thoughts  reverted  to  the  other 
girl,  whose  identity  was  not  clear,  sharply  bringing  her 
to  account.  Confident  of  Allan's  genuine  love  for  her- 
self, she  felt  that  the  unknown  was  not  the  right  sort. 

Again  she  broke  a  pink  geranium  bud,  wending  her 
way  to  her  room ;  and  Dorothy,  left  to  her  own  diversion, 
rummaged  among  the  books  and  papers  upon  the  table. 
But  the  paper  she  sought  could  not  be  found. 

Lechaw-Hanna  Camp  was  rather  distinguished  from 
camps  pitched  in  the  hills.  It  was  home  six  months  of 
the  year  for  the  Dales.  Thus  considerable  thought  had 
been  expended  upon  its  embellishment,  which  lacked 
display,  that  bold  parade  that  traduces  good  taste  and 
(  slurs  refinement. 

The  windows  of  the  spacious  Camp  were  draped  in 
white  muslin;  the  floors  polished  and  spread  with 
Turkish  and  Smyrna  rugs,  and  the  furniture  throughout 
quite  in  keeping  with  luxurious  comfort  and  ease  essen- 
tial to  the  perfect  attainment  of  enjoyment  and  rest. 
Niceness  and  daintiness  touched  with  artistic  fingers  the 
smallest  appointment  of  the  room,  and  the  swastika  in 
old  blue  above  the  frieze  on  the  mantel  bespoke  its  mean- 
ing, "Good  luck"  and  "Welcome !" 

Dorothy's  search  was  hopeless,  and  finally  she  inquired 
of  the  maid  who  entered  : 

"Yes,  miss,  Ben  brought  a  copy  from  the  Quarters 
just  a  while  ago,  and  Jane  is  reading  it  this  minute  to 
the  chef." 

"If  Jane  would  kindly " 

"Oh,  certainly,  miss." 

Twenty  minutes  later  Dorothy  rapped  lightly  on  Aunt 
Helen's  door. 

"Come,"  was  the  pleasant  rejoinder,  and  Dorothy 
fairly  threw  herself  into  the  room. 


IF  LOYALTY  IS  TO  BE  THE  BOND     119 

"Aunty — Aunty!"  producing  the  sheet,  and  with 
enthusiasm  that  might  have  been  excused  in  Maithele, 
"Aunty,  dear,  read  this  !" 

"Why,  read  it,  read  it  out  yourself;  what  unusual 
thing  has  happened?" 

But  Dorothy  was  instituting  search  for  the  glasses. 

"They  are  in  my  glove-box,  there  child, — there !" 

"I  don't  see  them." 

"You  never  can  find  things,  Dorothy." 

Dorothy  faced  Aunt  Helen,  a  playful  sortie  upon  her 
lips,  which  did  not  escape,  however. 

"Why  are  you  laughing?    I  see  no " 

"Well,  Aunty,  it  is  enough  to  make  Miss  Jack  Tiger 
laugh — the  glasses  are " 

'•'Well,  well,"  blushed  Aunt  Helen,  lifting  her  hand 
to  her  brow ;  "I  must  be  getting  old — you  ought  to  have 
seen  them  at  once,  Dorothy." 

"I  did,  Aunty." 

"Well,  well " 

And  Dorothy  placed  her  finger  upon  the  paragraph. 

Aunt  Helen  read  the  announcement  with  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

"Eeally,  a  very  nice  young  man,  and,  I  hope " 

"How  can  you  say  such  things?  'Nice  young  man/ 
indeed !  Aunty,  he  is  a  villain !" 

"My  dear — -" 

"I  mean  it — I'm  sure  of  it — I — " 

"My  dear,  your  father  is  most  particular " 

"Aunty,  don't  say  another  word." 

And  the  girl  dropped  softly  at  Aunt  Helen's  feet,  her 
head  in  the  lap  of  the  elder,  who,  smoothing  the  dark 
hair,  gently  inquired: 

"Has  any  one  been  trifling  with  my  girl's  affections  ?" 
Without  looking  up,  Dorothy  answered : 


120  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"I  never  see  anybody  when  Ned's  around." 

"Indeed !" 

Aunt  Helen  readjusted  her  glasses,  looking  over  the 
rims. 

She  had  been  expecting  something  of  the  kind,  because 
of  the  gentleman's  attentiveness  to  herself. 

"My  niece  has  forgotten,  perhaps,  the  duties  of  a 
hostess  ?" 

"Listen,  Aunty." 

"I  am  all  attention " 

"Well,"  lifting  her  head  from  Aunt  Helen's  lap,  "last 
evening  we  young  people  got  things  all  mixed  up — but, 
everything  is  lovely  now — between  Ned  and  me." 

"So  it  seems.    But  what  have  you  and  Mr.  Lawrence  ?" 

"Don't  mister  Ned,  Aunty." 

"My  dear,  I  addressed  Mr.  Van  Ransom " 

"Yes,  but  Ned  is  so  awfully  fond  of  you." 

"I  was  the  financee  of  Mr.  Van  Ransom ;  he  was  fond 
of  me — but,"  she  said,  anxiously,  "please  tell  me  why 
you  are  charging  Mr.  Richard  Allen  with  villainy  ?" 

"Poor  Maithele!  You  know,  Aunty — Richard 
Allan " 

"Has  not  presumed?"    Aunt  Helen  lifted  her  brows. 

"Everybody  presumes — even  Pat;  why,  he  calls  us 
gals " 

"Dorothy,  will  you  kindly  get  through  with  the  pre- 
liminary." 

"Now,  don't  hurry  me,  Aunty,  dear ;  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  a  single  thing  about  the  affair " 

"What  affair?" 

"Why,  just  what  I'm  telling  you,  Aunty ;  Maithele  is 
all  upset.  She  never  told  me  until  this  morning;  but, 
of  course,  I  guessed  it  long  ago." 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  all  you  know  at  once?"  Aunt 


IF  LOYALTY  IS  TO    BE  THE  BOND     121 

Helen's  voice  announced  the  severe  note,  and  Dorothy 
went  into  detail  at  once. 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Helen,  when  the  recital  was  over, 
"your  father  shall  know  of  this." 

"Now,  Aunty,  don't  get  things  mixed  up !" 

"They  are  'mixed'  already,  it  seems.  Where  is 
Maithele?" 

"In  her  room,  Aunty  dear.  Eeally,  I  don't  think  she 
knows  about  this  announcement." 

"Leave  the  paper  where  she  will  see  it." 

"Terrible !    Think  how  sudden  it  might  be !" 

"Then  I  will  go  to  her— 

"No,  no — you  are  sweet  and  very  gentle,  Aunty  dear, 
but  girls — girls  are  different ;  I  will  go  to  her " 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Helen,  "and  report  to  me 
later " 

"Why,  Aunty !    I'm  no  go-between !" 

"Why  are  you  here  now?"  Aunt  Helen  was  truly 
vexed. 

"I  thought  you  might  suggest  something.  Just  think 
Aunty,  if  Mr.  Van  Eansom  had  married  the  other  girl, 
instead  of  dying,  think  how  sad  your  life  might  have 
been." 

"There  was  no  other  girl,"  said  Aunt  Helen,  with 
spirit,  "and  that  was  years  ago,  before  you  were  born." 

"Were  things  so  awfully  different  before  I  was  born  ?" 

Miss  Dale  removed  her  glasses  preparatory  to  telling 
the  oft-repeated  story  of  her  early  courtship,  but  Dorothy 
fled. 

Aunt  Helen  sat  a  long  while  by  the  open  window  after 
Dorothy  departed,  a  troubled  look  on  her  face.  The  self- 
binding  harvester  was  coming  across  the  field,  and  her 
mind  was  diverted.  She  knew  nothing  whatever  about 
the  harvester,  but  the  picturesqueness  of  it  always  ap- 


I 


122  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

pealed  to  her.  At  the  far  end  of  the  island,  across  the 
stream,  towered  a  formidable  culm  hill,  twinkling  in 
the  sunlight  and  contrasting  in  bold  commercial  en- 
deavor with  the  poetic  suggestion  of  life  in  the  hills. 
Facing  the  house,  and  distinctly  within  Aunt  Helen's 
vision,  Campbell's  Ledge  loomed  majestically,  the  great 
furrow  in  its  brow  disappearing  as  the  midday  hour  sent 
a  shaft  of  yellow  light  upon  its  dial  face. 

Aunt  Helen's  mind  always  turned  to  dark  and  bloody 
tragedy  when  she  gazed  upon  the  Ledge ;  a  superstitious 
feeling  came  over  her  as  she  gazed.  There  is  a  certain 
weirdness  to  all  wild  stretches  of  forest,  hill  and  valley, 
once  the  habitation  of  that  swarthy  race  banished  for- 
ever. Possibly,  the  religious  belief  of  the  red  people 
that  their  spirits  would  return  to  inhabit  the  loved  land 
for  which  they  so  savagely  contended,  is  the  influence. 
Certainly  it  was  a  conviction  with  Aunt  Helen.  One 
evening,  while  sitting  at  her  bedroom  window,  musing 
over  early  pioneer  days,  a  genuine  war-whoop  filled  the 
stillness.  Aunt  Helen's  fright  was  so  extreme  that  she 
nearly  fell  senseless  before  realizing  the  Indian  was  only 
Silas  Scott  calling  his  dogs  to  order.  At  the  present 
hour,  however,  her  thoughts  were  gathering  more  im- 
portant material.  The  new  affair  of  her  niece  was  not  so 
important — she  mentally  commented :  "  Girls  fall  in  and 
out  of  love  so  easily;  it  was  not  so  in  my  day" — but 
Maithele's  trouble  was  different,  and  she  set  about  in  her 
mind  devising  projects  that  might  cut  short  the  island 
season. 

Two  days  later  Aunt  Helen  accosted  Dorothy. 

"I  wish  your  father  had  taken  the  cottage  at  White 
Sulphur." 

"Why,  Aunty,  how  can  you?  Think  of  the  pleasure 
this  place  has  been  to  him." 


IF  LOYALTY  IS  TO  BE  THE  BOND     123 

"The  strike  situation  worries  me,"  said  Aunt  Helen, 
evasively;  "I  think  we  might  leave  here  anyway." 

"The  strike,  Aunty,  was  here  when  we  came,  and  I 
can't  see  that  it  makes  any  difference  at  all;  and  then, 
think  of  my  ball !  Haven't  we  planned  about  it  all  sum- 
mer ?  And  aren't  dozens  of  our  friends  expecting  invita- 
tions ?  Think,  Aunty,  a  ball  on  the  island  !  The  papers 
will  be  full  of  it :  'Miss  Dorothy  Dale  starts  the  fad' — 

"A  fad  is  like  pioneering — I  think  other  people  should 
do  it.  And  your  father  decidedly  objects  to  newspaper 
notoriet}'."  , 

"But,  Aunty,  a  girl  must  do  something  to  become 
popular." 

"A  girl  who  honestly  loves  a  good  young  man  worthy 
of  her  should  not  aspire  to  popularity." 

"But  how  may  a  girl  be  sure  of  the  deep  affection  of 
the  good  young  man  without  testing  the  affection." 

"Words  that  have  ruined  many  a  life,"  said  Aunt 
Helen,  hanging  the  glasses  upon  the  tiny  hook  secured 
to  the  bosom  of  her  gown.  Eesting  her  hands  in  her  lap, 
she  regarded  the  niece  keenly. 

"Well,"  she  said,  and  again,  "well !  Is  it  a  new  fad 
to  make  believe  with  honest  intentions?" 

"But,  Aunty!" 

"Not  another  word.  I  am  surprised,  that  is  all." 
Presently  she  inquired : 

"Where  is  Maithele?" 

"In  the  music-room.    Don't  you  hear  the  violin?" 

"And  where  is  Mr.  Euf ord  ?" 

"Jack?  I  think,  Aunty,  Jack  is  trying  to  make  up 
for  lost  time." 

Aunt  Helen  flushed,  looking  a  trifle  impetuous. 

"How  silly!  I  wish  you  were  half  as  diplomatic  as 
^faithele." 


124  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"I  would  hate  to  acquire  diplomacy  by  such  sad 
experience." 

"Has  she  said  anything?"  persisted  Aunt  Helen,  dis- 
regarding Dorothy's  defence.  Aunt  Helen  had  some  of 
the  curiosity  that  comes  with  the  footnotes  that  index 
the  face. 

"Why,  Aunty,"  answered  the  clever  niece,  "Maithele 
is  a  diplomat." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"YOU  WOULD  BE  UNHAPPY  AS  MY  WIFE." 

RICHARD  ALLAN  wrote  Clara  Lansing  regarding  the 
engagement  announcement. 

"I  thought,"  the  letter  stated,  "a  man  should  have 
something  to  say  about  his  own  engagement." 

The  answer,  coming  by  return  mail,  lifted  his  hope. 

"Officiousness,"  she  wrote  in  return;  "the  society  re- 
porter should  be  suppressed. 

And  Allan  telegraphed  eagerly,  grasping  the  pro- 
verbial straw: 

"Send  for  the  reporter;  have  the  officiousness  cor- 
rected. Have  written." 

He  felt  the  brutality  of  the  message ;  but  his  case  was 
desperate.  Was  he  not  bombarded  in  his  own  citadel  by 
the  unconciliating  ?  Besides  another  must  suffer  if  he 
passed  the  aggressiveness.  His  letter  was  gentlemanly 
in  a  measure;  tender,  touching  lightly  the  point  of 
honor — a  veiled  appeal  to  generosity. 

The  announcement  had  come  like  a  sudden  thunder- 
clap. In  the  awful  din,  he  realized  the  force  of  the 
storm,  and  its  determined  course.  He  had  been  neglect- 
ing his  fiancee,  hoping  earnestly  that  she  might  call  him 
to  account  But  Clara  Lansing,  suspecting  his  at- 
tachment for  Maithele,  failed  to  take  exception. 
Realizing  fully  that  he  meant  to  break  with  her,  she  had 
the  announcement  inserted  in  the  society  sheet.  Yet 

125 


126  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

when  Allan  wrote  her,  she  rested  the  blame  upon  the 
broad  shoulders  of  the  much  abused.  When  the  envelope 
,  with  the  huge  monogram  arrived,  ten  long  days  had  in- 
tervened. One  line — one!  The  lady  would  wire  him — 
upon  her  return  from  the  country,  the  letter  stated.  He 
tore  the  envelope,  blue  monogram — all,  into  shreds,  con- 
signing the  bits  to  the  waste-basket,  and  abused  the  office 
boy.  It  was  the  only  thing  to  do. 

On  a  very  gloomy  Monday  evening  toward  the  end  of 
August  the  interview  took  place.  With  a  flutter,  Clara 
Lansing  related  many  things  that  in  no  way  bore  upon 
the  subject  he  had  traveled  miles  to  discuss ;  yet  he  had 
no  desire  to  push  her,  entertaining  conciliatory  thoughts, 
hoping  to  lead  gently  to  a  full  pardon  of  his  grievous 
©fEence. 

The  conventions  were  passed ;  everybody  was  well ;  no 
disasters  had  occurred. 

He  explained  at  length  the  life  of  a  business  man,  the 
crowding  out  of  social  obligations. 

"I  should  have  come  at  once,  really— I  should  not 
have  written." 

She  agreed  with  him. 

"My  telegram  was  not  exactly  what  it  should  have 
been,"  he  said  at  last ;  "it  was  too  hasty." 

"Telegrams  always  are,"  she  said,  and  with  considera- 
ble dexterity  passed  the  telegram.  Then  in  some  way,  he 
managed  to  bring  the  conversation  around  to  the  first 
days  of  their  friendship. 

He  was  gentle,  very  gentle;  it  was  his  way  with 
women,  and  under  the  spell  her  usual  calm  was  re- 
stored; yet,  plainly,  Clara  Lansing  had  the  situation 
carefully  mapped  out;  she  was  prepared  for  any  turn  he 
might  give  the  subject,  and  she  was  equally  determined 
that  he  should  have  the  lead. 


Almost  from  the  first  moment  of  her  engagement  with 
Richard  Allan,  she  had  acknowledged  to  herself  the 
chagrin  of  unrequited  love.  She  knew  the  pressure  that 
had  been  brought  to  bear  upon  the  man ;  her  own  undis- 
guised admiration  and  her  uncle's  generosity,  and  she 
only  hoped  for  a  gradual  surrender.  Clara  Lansing  de- 
termined to  win  him  over,  but  she  lacked  the  great  depth 
and  personal  force  necessary  for  successful  conquest. 
The  borderland  of  her  vision  was  inclined  to  narrow- 
ness, though  well  defined;  her  thoughts  trailed  out  or 
near  its  edge  with  given  rule.  She  understood  gaining 
and  getting  and  the  law  that  makes  binding  love  thus 
obtained;  but  she  did  not,  could  not  understand 
the  other  nature,  entirely  opposite,  that  spurns  the  lag- 
gard's gift,  holding  love  to  be  a  beauteous,  free,  un- 
fettered thing,  with  wings  outstretching  to  infinity. 
Neither  could  Clara  Lansing  accept  defeat  in  the  true 
womanly  spirit  that  stands  reservedly  behind  the  silver 
shield  of  pride  in  the  besetting  hour.  Some  of  Uncle 
John  Lansing's  coldness  told  in  her  face ;  in  the  corners 
about  the  mouth  the  lines  were  hard,  and  possibly  a 
mere  trifle  of  his  peculiar  generosity  lurked  in  her  breast. 
She  was  a  woman  who  might  acquire  prominence  and 
position,  as  Lansing  acquired  gold;  but  Love,  the  wary 
somnambulist,  is  not  awakened  or  held  by  such  methods. 

Very  nicely  Allan  turned  the  conversation  from  plati- 
tudes, drifting  back  to  the  first  days  of  their  friendship, 
hoping  by  so  doing  to  keep  himself,  his  f errorless  actions, 
in  a  broad  light. 

She  felt  the  atmosphere,  the  heaviness  of  it;  yet  she 
would  not  yield  to  its  influence 

"Those  were  pleasant  days,  Clara,  and  the  pity  is 
that  change  should  inevitably  mark  our  hearts  as  it  does 
the  seasons." 


128  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Indeed !    I  should  be  sorry  to  admit  fickleness." 

"Oh,  I  do  not  accuse  myself." 

"I  hope  you  do  not.  I  should  despise  myself  if  I 
could  not  be  loyal." 

"Sure." 

He  had  fallen  precipitously;  she  helped  him  to  his 
feet;  but  rather  madly  he  plunged  again,  this  time 
encountering  the  stone  wall.  In  his  eagerness  he  had 
brushed  important  events  lightly  aside.  She  grew 
flushed  while  she  listened,  yet  displayed  not  the  slightest 
impatience  to  the  end,  which  came  at  last,  falling  so  flat 
that  ordinary  limitations  were  lost.  When  she  spoke  her 
self-possessed  manner  corrected  a  statement. 

"It  was  after  the  hunt  in  the  woods  that  my  uncle 
rendered  you  a  great  service — or  was  it  before?" 

"Before." 

"You  have  had  difficulties  since?" 

"I  have  never  called  upon  Mr.  Lansing  and — I  met 
my  obligations." 

"I  do  not  speak  for  my  uncle — we  will  pass  gratitude. 
I  hate  the  word.  I  merely  wish  to  recall  the  incident, 
which  leads  to  something  rather  more  important.  It 
was  after  the  hunt,  then,  that  you  proposed  and  I 
accepted  you?" 

"If  you  wish  to  be  very  exact,"  he  said;  "we  were 
occupying  a  section  of  the  accommodation  train.  The 
two  weeks  had  been  very  pleasant — and — " 

"You  asked  me  to  be  your  wife " 

He  glanced  at  her  earnestly,  with  a  puzzled  expression. 

"A  man  don't  forget  a  thing  like  that !" 

"Yet  four  years — is  quite  a  while." 

"Four  years,"  repeated  Allan — and  within  himself  he 
thought — "one  month  to  a  day  before  Maithele  came 
east  to  make  her  home  with  the  Dales." 


"YOU  WOULD  BE  UNHAPPY  AS  MY  WIFE"  129 

"Did  I  ever  return  to  the  subject  ?" 

"You  certainly  did.  The  following  Sunday,  uncle 
congratulated  us  both." 

"I  remember/' 

"And  the  night  we  went  to  the  Twelfth  Night  dance — 
it  was  I  who  found  the  ring  in  the  cake.  Friends  con- 
gratulated, and,  possibly  you  have  forgotten — 'Wear  it/ 
you  said,  and  you  slipped  the  ring  upon  my  finger  before 
the  whole  assembly." 

"I  had  forgotten  that!  Yes,  I  remember,  now  that 
you  recall  the  trivial  incident." 

"I  did  not  consider  it  trivial,  and  I  think  many  of 
those  present  might  not  have  forgotten." 

Allan  nearly  smiled,  notwithstanding  his  troubled 
mood ;  he  was  thinking  of  the  locket ;  the  many  faces  he 
had  placed  within  the  casing — wondering  if  one  of  the 
simple  courtesies  extended  might  produce  a  claim.  But, 
quickly,  he  dismissed  the  thought.  Allan  was  far  from 
being  an  egotist. 

"Three  occasions,  Clara?" 

She  sulked,  but  only  for  an  instant. 

"Nevertheless,  I  have  considered  myself  engaged — 
my  uncle,  my  friends,  accepted  you  as  my  affianced.  We 
have  corresponded ;  you  have  taken  me  about  when  here ; 
you  have  been  very  generous — I  mean,  thoughtful " 

Clara  Lansing  held  herself  erect,  and  came  to  the  end 
of  her  lines  without  a  tremor. 

"So  you  have  thought  best,  Clara,  to  bring  this  affair 
to  an  end?" 

She  held  her  breath ;  there  was  no  longer  a  doubt  that 
Allan  meant  to  boldly  precipitate  a  crisis.  An  awkward 
silence  followed  his  remark. 

"I  never  considered  you  an  ardent  lover,"  she  ven- 
tured, to  fill  the  gap,  "but  I  am  not  demonstrative 


130  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

myself,  naturally."  She  opened  and  closed  the  dainty 
fan  in  her  hands  nervously.  "I  have  never  doubted  your 
affection.  You  are  a  gentleman,  and,  I  have  every  reason 
to  believe,  a  man  of  honor." 

The  fire  in  his  heart,  barely  smouldering  at  this  point, 
suddenly  went  out;  she  had  thwarted  his  purpose.  He 
had  been  standing,  inclining  against  the  piano;  a  few 
songs  were  upon  the  rack,  he  turned  the  selections  idly. 
One  chanced  to  be  the  one  Maithele  had  sung  to  him  the 
night  of  the  anniversary.  Memories  rushed  upon  him  in 
the  trying  moment;  the  floor  beneath  his  feet  seemed 
uncertain.  He  sighed,  seating  himself  beside  Clara 
Lansing  in  the  tete-a-tete  chair ;  sighed  again.  Her  fan 
slipped  to  the  floor  by  accident  or  design.  He  picked  it 
up,  and,  before  returning  it,  mechanically  examined  the 
pearl  sticks. 

Evidently  the  fan  had  received  no  injury.  How  enor- 
mous becomes  the  trivial  thing,  when  the  evidence 
hangs  by  a  thread.  The  fan  was  his  first  gift  to  her ;  it 
had  come  in  a  nice  disguise,  almost  hidden  in  a  bouquet 
of  red  carnations. 

"Haven't  I  kept  it  nicely  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  where  did  you  get  it  ?"  he  inquired. 

The  sword  of  Damocles  fell ! 

Silence  in  the  critical  moment  is  more  weighty  than 
words.  Clara  Lansing  was  clever !  And  Allan  suddenly 
bethought  him  to  renew  the  attack  by  taking  the  cir- 
cuitous route.  His  voice  softly  modulated  as  he  dropped 
into  the  chair  beside  her. 

"I  would  not  spoil  your  life,  Clara,  for  all  the  world." 

She  brightened,  and  he  went  on  slowly,  his  eyes  fas- 
tening upon  the  bright  rug  at  their  feet ;  but  the  cynical 
expression  about  his  mouth  was  rather  too  perceptible; 
she  felt  less  confident. 


"YOU  WOULD  BE  UXHAPPY  AS  MY  WIFE"  131 

"If  we  marry,  you  shall  have  no  cause  to  complain. 
I  will  do  my  best  to  make  you  happy.  I — I  am  glad  you 
do  not  look  for  demonstrations.  I  would  not  care  to  dis- 
appoint you." 

A  long  pause  followed,  which  to  Clara  Lansing  seemed 
an  eternity.  At  last  he  looked  up — looked  full  upon  the 
woman  at  his  side,  passionless,  his  eyes  holding  every 
detail  of  her  perfect  form.  Her  features  were  homely ; 
she  lacked — utterly  lacked — beauty,  that  great  essential, 
yet  her  figure  was  striking. 

Clara  Lansing's  constancy  and  loyalty  flattered,  even 
while  her  conduct  repulsed  and  angered  him;  and  he 
reasoned  with  himself  now,  as  he  had  reasoned  many 
times,  that  if  Maithele  had  not  crossed  his  path  again, 
or,  if  finding  her,  she  had  been  the  wife  of  another, 
Clara  Lansing  might  have  become  his  wife.  He  had 
never  loved  her.  The  thing  that  stirred  his  heart,  and 
brought  about  the  proposal,  was  gratitude,  over-exag- 
gerated, and  something  besides — perhaps;  that  ingra- 
tiating influence  often  laid  at  the  door  of  cir- 
cumstances. At  the  present  hour,  when  intuitively 
he  felt  that  the  cause  of  Maithele  was  growing 
less,  love  became  the  lambent  flame — the  one  inestimable, 
precious  thing,  worth  the  struggle.  It  is  impossible  to 
appreciate  thoroughly  reciprocal  happiness,  until  some- 
thing has  come  between,  and  all  in  a  rush  he  realized 
the  hardship  of  coming  years,  should  he  be  compelled  to 
live  with  duty  and  a  memory. 

Lifting  his  whole  strength  for  the  supreme  effort,  his 
mind  naturally  made  a  concise,  quick  and  careful  re- 
sume of  the  situation.  Meeting  Maithele  at  Dale's  city 
home,  the  year  following  her  father's  demise,  he  had 
realized  to  the  depth  of  sensibility  that  she  alone  pos- 
sessed his  heart,  but  the  fatal  words  had  been  spoken; 


132  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

Clara  Lansing  had  the  prior  claim.  Maithele's  manner, 
too,  chilled  him ;  though  gracious  and  kind,  she  had  not 
evinced  eagerness  or  partiality  toward  him.  He  miscon- 
strued her  coldness,  due  perhaps  to  sorrows  that  coming 
all  too  quickly  had  bereft  her  of  family  and  home,  and 
he  did  not,  perhaps,  appreciate  at  once  the  reserve  due  to 
her  bringing  up.  His  visits  to  the  D'ale  mansion  were 
frequent;  in  fact,  every  run  to  the  city  meant  a  visit, 
and  on  several  occasions  Clara  Lansing  was  neglected. 

Like  the  unfolding  of  a  bud,  reserve  had  fallen,  and 
the  rose  gazed  wide-eyed  into  his  soul. 

He  had  come  prepared  to  lay  his  heart  bare,  to  humble 
himself,  if  need  be,  to  Clara  Lansing.  It  was  hard  on 
her,  but  just.  He  would  tell  the  story  straight,  not 
sparing  himself,  and  the  inevitable  might  take  its  course. 

"You  are  a  good  girl,  Clara,"  he  resumed,  "deserving 
of  a  better  fate  than  seems  to  be  falling  your  way.  I  do 
not  want  to  spoil  your  life ;  the  marriage  takes  place,  if, 
after  hearing  my  story,  you  are  of  the  same  mind." 

"I  prefer  not;  I  don't  care  to  hear  it.  I — I — trust 
you,  Richard." 

"But  you  must.    Another  is  concerned." 

She  winced  visibly,  and  his  purpose  hung. 

"Another  time,"  she  said,  "when  we  are " 

He  objected,  adding  quickly : 

"We  will  never  be  in  better  condition  to  bear  with 
each  other." 

Clara  Lansing  was  a  woman  of  indomitable  spirit  and 
determination,  characteristics  which,  when  nicely  blended 
with  consideration  and  unselfishness,  elicit  admiration; 
but,  too  often,  indeed,  accompanied  by  heartlessness  and 
self-aggrandizement — the  distinguishing  qualities  have 
narrowed  the  career  of  many  a  good  man.  Perhaps  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  her  purpose  failed.  Ignoring 


her  motive,  he  began  the  story.  It  was  brief — very — 
as  such  stories  should  be. 

"I  met  her  first  when  I  went  south." 

"Yes,  I  understand;  Southern  women  are  great 
schemers." 

Silence  fell  between  them.  He  passed  the  calumny 
with  a  sarcastic  droop  of  the  lower  lip. 

He  proceeded  with  the  simple  facts,  accusing  no  one, 
not  even  himself;  barely  stating  the  case,  and  carefully 
omitting  the  moonlight  revelation  and  the  anniversary 
dinner.  It  was  only  clear  that  he  loved  the  other  girl. 
He  paused,  possibly  waiting  the  verdict,  but  it  did  not 
follow. 

Her  nerves  were  shaken;  yet  she  gave  no  sign.  Be- 
sides, she  felt  that  concession  might  mean  defeat. 

He  had  expected  an  outbreak;  her  silence  disturbed 
him. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  finally. 

Her  voice  seemed  inaudible — a  trifle  relenting. 

"You  should  have  spoken  sooner;  I  could  not  bear 
the  ridicule  of  being  jilted." 

"Jilted?" 

The  word  had  a  strange  sound,  far-off  and  bizarre. 

"No,  Clara,  not  by  me.  You  surely  can  find  an 
excuse." 

He  lifted  the  hand  that  rested  heavily  on  her  lap,  and 
placed  it  between  his  own. 

"Think  about  it ;  don't  hurry ;  you  would  be  unhappy 
as  my  wife." 

"I  am  decided,"  she  said,  jerking  the  hand  from  his 
clasp ;  "the  marriage  takes  place." 

He  rose  at  once,  tall  and  terrible  in  his  own  defense. 

"Think  what  you  are  about,  girl.  Marriage,  without 
love!" 


134  OUE  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

She  bit  her  lip  until  it  pained. 

"I  almost  hate  you — I  do  hate  her/'  she  cried,  petu- 
lantly. She  was  standing,  one  hand  tightly  clasping  the 
fan,  the  other  hard  upon  her  chest  with  fingers  clenched. 
Her  eyes,  brilliant  with  anger,  flashed  upon  Allan  with  a 
look  of  deep  enmity  and  passion. 

"She  shall  not  win — she  shall  not  win  I"  Clara  Lansing 
hissed  almost  under  her  breath.  He  did  not  catch  the 
words  at  once — they  seemed  far-off,  distrait;  his  senses 
were  stunned,  but  he  recovered  presently,  and,  moved  by 
a  revolting  spirit,  spoke  with  quiet  sarcasm : 

"There  would  have  been  no  question  of  prize  with 
her." 

He  reached  the  door. 

"Good-night,  Miss  Lansing." 

She  did  not  reply,  and  his  hand  touched  the  knob. 

"Make  all  the  arrangements  to  suit  yourself."  He 
lingered  a  moment,  hoping  she  would  speak.  She  did 
not.  He  opened  the  door,  glancing  earnestly  toward  her, 
then  closed  it,  entered  the  reception  hall,  and,  receiving 
his  hat  and  cane,  passed  out  into  the  night. 

At  the  corner  of  Sixty-second  Street  he  paused  to 
strike  a  match;  drew  at  the  cigar;  examined  it;  drew 
again,  sending  a  long  thin  cloud  into  the  warm  night. 

"Bah !"  He  threw  the  weed  into  the  street,  looking 
up  and  down  that  wonderful  thoroughfare,  whose  life 
never  dies.  He  saw  a  hansom  approaching,  hailed  it,  got 
into  it.  "Bah!" 

The  weed,  perhaps,  had  left  a  bad  flavor  in  his  mouth. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  GOOD  INTENTIONS   OF   THE  SCOT"TS. 

"Si !" 

Mrs.  Scott's  chair  was  very  near  her  husband's,  and 
without  effort  she  put  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Is  there  anything  queer  going  on  up  at  Dales'  ?" 

"Wa'al  there  might  be,  if  Dale  don't  get  the  franchise 
through  for  thet  'lectric  road.  Allan's  sort  of  rattled; 
can't  get  the  up  or  down  of  him." 

"Does  he  say  anything?" 

"Says  everything  but  what  he  art  to  say;  talks  in- 
cessant but  aint  clear  with  his  ideas — he's  plumb  off." 

"Do  you  think  Maithele  has  anything  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"Can't  tell." 

"Hope  they  ain't  no  other  woman." 

"What  kind  of  Mohawk  do  you  think  Dick  is?" 

"Do  you  mean  a  Mohawk  can  bear  a.  temptation — 
stand  it  off,  or  thet  he's  a  born  faithful  ?" 

"Whew!  Louisa,  the  questions!  I  guess,"  switching 
from  a  dangerous  subject,  "he's  just  busy  with  that 
'lectric  road  that's  to  run  from  the  island  to  Wilkes- 
Barre  in  sixty  minutes." 

"I  should  think  Mr.  Dale's  mines  was  enough  for 
him  ?" 

"Wa'al,  I  dunno ;  he  gits  sort  of  lonesome  waiting  for 
the  strike  to  git  ar-bi-trated.  He  took  to  that  scheme 
same  as  the  poet  takes  to  the  green  wood,  for  recreation. 
It  would  cost  him  about  as  much  to  git  thet  railroad 

135 


136  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

a-running  as  it  would  for  the  poet  to  git  his  book  of 
poems  published,  not  counting  circulating." 

"I'm  mighty  glad  that  you  took  to  dogs  enstead  of 
po-try,  Si." 

Scott  laughed. 

"The  only  difference,"  he  said  with  a  wink,  "is  thet  if 
I  was  hard  up,  the  dogs  would  sell,  but  the  po-try 
wouldn't." 

Mrs.  Scott  beamed  upon  her  husband. 

"You  know  a  heap ;  did  you  grad-u-ate,  Si  ?" 

"Oh,  I  dunno ;  we  didn't  grad-u-ate  in  them  days ;  we 
quit.  If  we  thought  we  knowed  as  much  as  the  teacher, 
we  quit.  In  these  days  the  kid  keeps  on  hoping  the 
teacher  '11  learn  from  him.  I  didn't  hev'  easy  schooling ; 
dad  larrupted  me  if  I  didn't  go  to  school,  an'  the  teacher 
larrupted  me  when  I  got  there.  I  had  generally  don' 
something  the  day  a-fore  thet  I  couldn't  recollect  as  well 
as  him,  an'  the  switch  was  alwus  handy.  So,  as  I  wan't 
trying  to  cultivate  his  bad  desposition,  I  played  hookey 
most  of  the  time.  I  guess  I  larnt  what  little  the  feller 
knowed,  which  wasn't  enough  to  hurt." 

Mr.  Scott  was  fanning  vigorously  with  his  hat. 

"It's  the  things  thet  ain't  in  books  thet  you  got  to 
learn  to  get  on  in  the  world,"  he  said,  and  continued : 

"Weth  the  map  of  Itily  resting  on  the  hilltops  an' 
the  guns  of  the  Nation  pintedly  set  to  the  valley  it's 
most  any  time  thet  suthen  might  happen. " 

"I  wouldn't  set  up  nights  thenking  on  it,  Si." 

"I  don't ;  the  dogs  is  enough  for  me !" 

And  at  this  point  a  dissertation  on  dogs  followed. 

Mrs.  Scott's  attentiveness  when  the  dog  subject  was 
on,  amounted  to  genius.  Scott  loved  this  particular 
genius;  an  audience  was  his  weakness.  Dismissing  the 
subject,  he  turned  to  Louisa  with  gentle  consideration. 


TIM   SHINN. 


GOOD   INTENTIONS    OF    THE    SCOTTS13? 

"You  got  suthen  on  your  mind,  Louisa  ?" 

"Mebbe  I  hev',  Si." 

She  twisted  the  strings  of  her  apron,  and  remarked 
tentatively : 

"Maithele  was  here  yestidy." 

"Why  didn't  you  keep  her  to  supper?" 

"Dorothy  an'  her  aunt  come  later,  an'  they  all  went 
home  together  before  supper-time." 

"Mebbe  they  would  'a'  staid  if  ye'd  ast  'em." 

"Likely  they  would— but  I  didn't." 

Hospitality  was  the  very  spirit  of  Mrs.  Scott.  Eecog- 
nizing  the  infraction,  he  prepared  for  trouble. 

Mrs.  Scott  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  a  dreaminess,  he 
did  not  miss,  coming  into  her  eyes. 

"Maithele  ain't  one  to  show  her  feelings ;  I  thought  at 
first  she  was  sick.  I  didn't  ast  no  questions,  but  give 
her  some  catnip  tea.  You  know,  Si,  how  she  alwus 
laughs  when  I  give  it  to  her.  She  didn't  laugh  yestidy — 
didn't  even  ast  if  there  was  sugar  in  it,  an'  fact  is  I 
hed  fergot  the  sugar.  She  gulped  the  catnip  down  an* 
said,  'Thank  ye.' " 

"Hump!"  grunted  Scott.  "Wa'al,  Louisa,  catnip  's 
only  fit'en'  for  babies ;  cut  it  out — cut  it  out."  He  gave 
Mrs.  Scott  a  playful  push,  and  added  a  moment  later, 
in  sober  earnestness. 

"I  wish  thet  girl  could  be  adopted,  it  would  be  pleas- 
ant to  hev'  her  around." 

Mrs.  Scott's  gaze  fell  pensively  upon  the  dogs  gam- 
boling on  the  soft  green  sward.  Her  eyes  traveled  far 
down  the  road,  then  back  again  to  the  farmyard,  resting 
finally  upon  the  man  at  her  side. 

"She's  jest  about,"  she  said  softly,  "jest  about  what  a 
girl  of  ours  would  a  bin  like  if  we'd  hed  one."  She 
went  on:  "If  she  hed  been  ours  from  the  start,  we 


138  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

might  a-bin  different.  We'd  hev'  hed  to  live  up  to  her 
an*  gone  to  live  in  the  city." 

"Wa'al,  Louisa,  mebbe  you  be  right,  an'  thet's  about 
the  only'  pacifying  part  of  the  setuation.  I  wouldn't 
never  hev'  bin  content  in  the  city,  after  spending  the 
best  part  of  my  life  in  the  kentry;  and  trotting  around 
to  shows  weth  girls  ain't  half  so  ent'taining  as  it  seems. 
I  guess  I  would  rether  adopt  her  now  as  she  is  growed 
up  weth  idees  that  hev*  got  re-qui-site  understanding  of 
other  people's  ways/' 

He  put  his  hand  upon  Mrs.  Scott's  shoulder. 

"So  long  as  I  hev'  you,  Louisa,  I  ain't  complaining." 

The  following  day  Scott  and  Dale  met  on  Susque- 
hanna  Avenue.  As  chance  would  have  it,  both  men  were 
going  in  the  same  direction.  They  cut  through  the  side 
street,  and  made  for  the  objective  point. 

They  walked  on  discussing  as  usual  the  strike  situ- 
ation, which  had  become  very  grave. 

"My  sister  is  trying  to  coax  me  from  the  island.  She 
has  taken  sudden  alarm." 

"You  hain't  had  nothing  stole?" 

"Yes  ?"  answered  Dale,  "one  hundred  hills  of  potatoes 
dug  up  last  night.  I  shall  keep  a  guard  after  this." 

"Wa'al,  folks  hev'  to  eat,"  said  Scott,  with  a  sidelong 
glance.  A  man  was  sitting  on  a  barrel  at  the  side  of  a 
narrow  street. 

"I  was  thinking  of  my  family " 

Scott  touched  Dale's  coat  sleeve  significantly,  as  he 
addressed  the  man : 

"Hello,  T'omas." 

The  fellow  had  sharp  brown  eyes  that  peeped  from 
between  narrow  slits. 

Dale  was  passing  on;  Scott  stopped  short,  addressing 
the  fellow. 


GOOD   INTENTIONS    OF   THE    SCOTTS 139 

"I  got  a  real  curiosity  up  home,,  I  was  telling  Dale 
here,"  jerking  his  thumb  in  Dale's  direction;  "two  weeks 
old  an'  he's  got  a  white  tail  an'  a  black  head  an'  a  tan 
body ;  never  seen  his  equal  before.  Want  him  ?" 

The  fellow  grunted. 

"Tell  the  boys  I'll  bring  him  down  to  the  grocery 
store  to-morrow ;  you  can  throw  for  him." 

The  fellow  shuffled  off,  and  Scott  turned  to  Dale. 

"Thenk  twict  before  you  speak  onct  in  these  diggings. 
I  guess  I  hev'  to  give  thet  pup  away — you'll  know  to- 
morrow if  our  folks  is  safe  on  the  island." 

Dale's  friendship  for  Scott  had  not  grown  out  of 
trifles  as  related.  Dale  admired  Scott  for  certain  quali- 
ties, qualities  too  often  lacking  in  men  of  the  world  with 
whom  he  came  in  contact. 

Dale  was  the  cultivated  gentleman,  Scott  the  unculti- 
vated, and  finesse  was  not  distinguishable  between  the 
two. 

"The  island's  safe  from  the  gnats,"  Scott  whispered  in 
Dale's  ear  the  following  day,  "but  eight  guards  ain't 
bad  as  a  eye-op'ner.  They  don't  mean  no  harm — got  a 
sweet-tooth  to  fill  thet  ain't  provided  for  by  the  union." 

Scott's  popularity  with  the  union  men  could  hardly 
be  accounted  for. 

He  did  not  countenance  unions,  and  spoke  his  views 
openly.  Almost  in  the  same  breath,  however,  he  would 
remark,  "Some  few  intelligent  citizens  must  hold  the 
money-bags,  but,  Mighty  Powers,  they  ain't  no  one,  nor 
company  of  One,  entitled  to  the  hull  earth." 

And  when  Scott  arrived  home  the  same  evening  he 
was  met  by  Mrs.  Scott,  who  said  rather  briskly : 

"We  air  envited  for  next  Thursday,  Si  ?" 

"Where?" 

"Why,  where  should  you  'spose?    To  the  Dales'." 


140  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"What's  the  trick?" 

"They  hev'  company — Philidelphy  people.  It's  up  to 
you,  Si,  though  I  ain't  much  on  hossbacking  around 
the  kentry  showing  Queen  Esther's  Rock  an'  Forty  Fort 
Church  an'  the  like  to  strangers/' 

She  led  him  to  the  kitchen.  Going  at  once  to  the  oven, 
she  opened  the  door  and  peeped  in. 

"How  they  gettin'  on  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Fine,"  she  continued,  closing  the  oven  door  and  put- 
ting things  to  order  on  the  table.  It  was  day-off  for 
Prudence  and  the  two  were  enjoying  the  kitchen. 

"Thet  Jack  Ruford's  going  to  pilot  them  'round." 

Scott  was  all  attention.  Any  man  of  Northeastern 
Pennsylvania  who  elected  himself  postgraduate  in  the 
matter  of  piloting  people  about,  explaining  historic 
points  of  interest,  he  considered  a  rival.  Instantly  his 
mind  evolved  a  plot  to  worst  the  wily  Ruford.  Mrs. 
Scott  spoke  again,  opening  the  way  with  singular  clear- 
ness. The  idea  had  matured  slowly  in  her  brain.  She 
might  not  have  given  vent  to  it  then  and  there,  but  Si's 
ear,  big  and  inviting,  made  temptation  sweet.  She 
leaned  over  and  whispered — though  there  was  no  need — 
they  were  alone. 

Then  she  returned  to  the  oven,  slipping  one  pie  and 
then  another  on  china  plates  and  putting  them  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  oven.  "I  hed  the  idee  in  my  head  for 
quite  a  spell  that  it  would  be  fine  to  get  Dick  up  here 
unbeknownst  to  him  or  her  of  our  ententions." 

"The  very  thing;  I'll  try  it,  Louisa,  I'll  try  it.  Wa'al, 
wa'al,  the  head  you  hey*  got;  if  you'd  bin  a  man,  you'd 
bin  a  millionaire." 

They  laughed  as  children  laugh  whose  cares  are  few, 
and  playtime  happy. 


By  Courtesy  of  Leslie's  Weekly ,  Copyright ,  1904,  by  Judge  Company. 

"BAGGED  CHILDREN  SWEET  AND  HEALTHY.' 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  PLEASURE  JAUNT  TO  FORTY-FORT  CHURCH. 

THE  morning  was  glorious  and  the  party  swung  into 
the  road  that  led  with  subtle  dreamery  through  waving 
corn,  cabbage  and  potato  patches,  fields  of  buckwheat  in 
bloom,  flaking  the  ground  with  white,  like  snow  wings 
that  will  soon  be  coming.  And  Boreas,  breathing  through 
the  trees,  keenly  suggested  his  waking  mood  that  all  too 
soon  hurries  the  delicate  foliage  into  shreds.  On  one 
side  of  the  road  where  orchard  and  pasture  suggest  rural 
existence,  they  beheld  a  group  of  ragged  children  sweet 
and  healthy,  playing  beside  an  old-fashioned  well.  They 
looked  like  wild  roses  that  hedge  the  gardens.  Some  they 
saw  laden  with  sack  and  basket  climbing  the  dark  culm 
hills  that  dot  the  valley,  stealthily  groping  their  way  up 
the  dark  steep  piles  and  returning  again  generously 
sooted,  and  heavily  laden  with  anthracite  chips. 

At  the  bridge  Mrs.  Scott  drew  rein,  addressing  Aunt 
Helen : 

"  Si's  expecting  a  friend  over.  Si  sold  his  land  up  near 
the  Perkins'  house,  leastwise  it's  liable  to  be  sold  before 
Bight* 

The  fib  went  unrecorded. 

But  Aunt  Helen's  solicitude  as  chaperon  became 
apparent,  and  Mrs.  Scott  was  merciful. 

"We  won't  wait  for  him,  if  it  worries  you.  I  guess 
he'll  ketch  up." 

141 


140  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

And  with  a  flop  of  the  reins,  the  ladies  proceeded  on 
their  way,  Aunt  Helen  hardly  interesting  herself  in  the 
scenery,  not  being  able  to  overcome  her  aversion  for 
everything  Indian.  To  Aunt  Helen  the  spirits  of  the 
redmen  seemed  ever  floating  about  the  valley ;  no  amount 
of  coaxing  could  have  induced  her  to  walk  upon  an  Indian 
mound,  handle  a  tomahawk,  or  even  touch  an  arrow- 
head. She  had  read  one  chapter  on  the  Wyoming  massa- 
cre in  schooldays;  it  was  enough.  But  here  she  was 
rushing  to  the  scene  of  the  tragedy.  Dorothy  inherited 
some  of  Aunt  Helen's  aversion  for  the  early  scalp-lifter, 
but  guests  had  to  be  entertained.  Maithele  would  en- 
thuse over  every  incident  touching  romantic  lore,  and, 
so  infectious  at  times  is  enthusiasm  that  Dorothy  waxed 
eloquent  later  in  the  day  as  the  owner  of  the  Perkins 
house  presented  her  with  an  arrow-head  that  had  been 
found  on  the  spot  where  a  member  of  his  family  had 
come  to  an  untimely  end  during  that  bloody  battle  that 
desolated  Forty  Fort ;  but  Dorothy  was  in  a  happy  state. 
Lawrence  rode  beside  her.  Love's  miracle  had  begun. 

Passing  the  Catholic  church,  the  party  continued  down 
the  street  and  soon  entered  the  picturesque  village  of  the 
miners.  At  the  duck-pond,  Dorothy  tried  a  snapshot,  but 
the  dark  visaged  loungers  on  the  green  sward,  and  even 
the  women  and  children  idling,  disconcerted ;  the  picture 
failed.  The  equestrians  went  through  the  rugged  section 
with  easy  canter,  admiring  the  charm  of  the  valley's 
chimerical  irregularity  and  the  panoramic  magnificence 
of  terraced  wilderness.  Now  and  then  the  serpentine 
Susquehanna  shone  between  sedgy  rushes,  tall  and  undu- 
lating, like  emerald  reef  bands,  and  shoots  of  dark  wil- 
lows recalling  with  drooping  intelligence  the  awful  car- 
nage of  the  valley's  past.  Then  hills  of  rhododendrons 
touched  with  sunshine  invited  thoughts  to  happier  ways. 


JAUNT    TO     FORTY-FORT     CHURCH    143 

— the  wonderful  riotous  bitter-sweet,  daring  top-windows 
of  dark,  apprehensive  coal-breakers ;  the  low  wood  fences 
tumbled  and  strung  with  wild  climatis,  elderberry  and 
morning  glories. 

"Is  it  not  strange,"  said  Maithele,  pinning  upon  her 
waist  a  dainty  aigrette  Jack  Ruford,  alighting,  had 
plucked  from  the  wayside,  "that  delightful  environment 
should  not  produce  contentment?" 

"I  am  content." 

$  "Don't  jolly;  I  mean  the  mine  people." 
"They  can't  eat  scenery." 
"And  do  we  ?    But  it  does  invigorate  the  brain." 
"Aren't  you  coming  to  anything?"  called  one  of  the 
Philadelphia  girls,  endeavoring  to  keep  pace  with  the 
Kentucky  thoroughbred. 

""We  have  arrived  at  scenery,"  said  Ruford,  galloping 
to  her  side. 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Mr.  Ruford " 

"  I  won't,  thank  you ;  but  really,  here  we  are  at  Queen 
Esther's  Rock." 

"\Ve  have  arrived,"  called  Maithele,  as  the  party  of 
equestrians  drew  rein. 

She  lifted  her  cap,  saluting.  It  was  a  jaunty  cap, 
white  duck  with  black  patent-leather  tip. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  allow  me  to  present  the  distin- 
guished professor  of  kinology,  just  arrived  from  Bar- 
]i3o."  Ruford  showed  his  teeth,  which  were  unusually 
fine,  and  she  went  on : 

"The  gentleman  is  a  natural  product  of  anthracite 
soil,  a  graduate  of  the  greatest  college  in  the  world — 
'Football  Team.'  He  has  traveled  to  New  Zealand  and 
Patagonia,  and  in  rapid  nights  of  imagination  has  pene- 
trated the  unexplored  wilds  of  Africa.  Thus— kindly 
follow  me — he  is  eminently  qualified  to  lecture  on  a  sub- 


144  OUE  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

ject  that  until  Thursday  last,  he  had  not  considered  part 
of  his  repertoire." 

This  bit  of  bombast  met  with  favor,  and  a  voice  cried 
out: 

"Hear!  Hear!" 

She  concluded : 

"He  will  now  proceed  to  give  the  history  of  the  most 
stupendous  and  unparalleled  crime  ever  perpetrated  by  a 
woman — the  most  cruel,  audacious  murderess  the  world 
has  ever  known." 

The  introduction  over,  Euford  bowed  low,  and  was 
about  to  begin  his  lines  as  Lady  Dee  whinnied;  which 
unusual  diversion  was  all-sufficient.  The  younger  Miss 
Eice  giggled ;  she  always  giggled. 

"Sh — sh — "  came  from  Dorothy,  "he  is  about  to 
speak." 

Euford  was  slightly  embarrassed,  but  his  hour  had 
come.  He  began  modestly : 

"This  celebrated  rock."  An  account  of  the  Wyoming 
massacre  followed  that  lasted  ten  minutes. 

"Horrible!"  said  Miss  Dale,  who  arrived  on  the  spot 
as  the  address  was  nearing  completion,  but  her  exclama- 
tion was  lost. 

"There  is  more,  there  is  more,"  insisted  Dorothy. 
Maithele  waved  her  hand. 

"Proceed,  they  haven't  had  their  money's  worth." 

He  gave  the  history  of  Queen  Esther,  half  white, 
wholly  savage,  whose  horrible  atrocities  could  never  be 
enumerated.  He  then  delivered  the  history  of  Forty 
Fort — constructed  by  forty  pioneers  who  came  into  the 
valley  in  1769,  who  were  betrayed  by  brutes  of  their  own 
race,  and  met  her  bloody  tomahawk. 

"In  1752,  the  cabin  of  no  white  man  had  broken  the 
stillness  of  the  Wyoming  Valley,"  concluded  Euford. 


JAUXT     TO     FORTY-FORT     CHURCH    145 

"One  hundred  years  ago,  a  certain  distinguished  judge 
tried  to  prove  to  an  audience  less  enthusiastic  than  the 
one  you  are  addressing,  professor,  that  coal  would  burn," 
put  in  Lawrence. 

"Only  six  months  ago,"  Maithele  added,  "the  strikers 
decided  that  it  would  burn,  but  they  wouldn't  let  it." 

The  party  moved  on  with  laughter,  gayety  and  persi- 
flage. The  road  was  smooth  and  wide;  often  the  horses 
galloped  or  paced,  five  abreast. 

Farms  snuggling  at  the  base  of  lofty  peaks  or  dainty 
abodes  standing  brazenly  by  the  roadside  elicited  the 
notice  and  often  enthusiasm  of  the  mounted  party. 

Finally,  houses  grouped  near  each  other,  laughter  and 
the  voices  of  children  made  life  more  distinct,  and  the 
road  unexpectedly  came  to  a  turn  at  the  foot  of  a  hill. 
A  vista  opened  bringing  strikingly  into  view  the  old  his- 
toric site  of  Forty  Fort. 

The  party  having  dismounted  wandered  about  the 
quaint  burial-ground  reading  inscriptions. 

"We  will  now  investigate  the  inside  of  the  church," 
exclaimed  Ruford,  in  a  dramatic  voice,  his  courage 
rising,  and  as  he  opened  the  door  of  the  church,  a  gust  of 
cool  air  met  the  intruders. 

Maithele  hesitated,  shivering. 

"I  hope  we  are  not  disturbing  ghosts." 
i     "They  ought  to  be  in  their  graves,  anyway,'  sighed 
Lawrence. 

They  went  inside,  staring  like  children  at  the  barren- 
ness that  confronted  them.  Dust  was  thick  upon  floor 
and  pews,  and  Dorothy  gathered  her  skirts,  looking  gin- 
gerly around. 

"The  church  has  never  been  varnished,"  explained 
Ruford,  as  the  party  proceeded  up  the  aisle.  And  as 


146  OUE  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

he  called  attention  to  the  beams,  a  voice  from  the  rear  of 
the  church  called  out  : 

"An7  the  timber  was  hewn  weth  ax  before  saws  got  into 
the  kentry." 

Dorothy  turned  quickly,  exclaiming : 

"Oh,  Mr.  Scott,  how  did  you  get  here?  We're  so 
glad."  As  he  joined  the  group  Dorothy  presented  the 
Philadelphia  girls. 

"You  are  acquainted  with  the  others." 

"Slightly,  daughter,  slightly." 

Jack  was  annoyed;  Scott  was  a  born  narrator.  The 
church  was  one  of  his  special  delights,  and  he  proceeded 
at  once,  in  the  face  of  his  rival,  calling  attention  to  the 
high  doors  of  the  pews  which  were  fastened  by  means  of 
wooden  buttons. 

"The  rostrum  is  the  perfect  type  of  the  high  pulpit 
seen  in  England  one  hundred  years  ago,"  came  the  coura- 
geous voice  of  Euford,  and  his  professorship  ended. 

"What  you  know  about  a  hundred  year  back?  Only 
what  ye  gits  out  of  books,  an'  thet  ain't  much."  Scott 
walked  over  to  the  window,  possibly  to  get  rid  of  the 
tobacco  quid.  "Thet  boy" — returning  to  the  group — 
"thinks  he  hes  the  world  in  a  sling." 

Putting  his  hand  upon  a  pew,  slightly  scarred  by  a 
penknife,  he  remarked,  touching  the  deep  dent : 

"I  knew  the  feller  that  done  it.  He  was  a  red-headed 
chap,  and  dead  set  on  Louisa." 

The  best  man  will  sometimes  gloat  over  the  slightest 
misdemeanor  of  a  rival.  Scott  shoved  his  hands  into  the 
side  pockets  of  his  round  jacket  and  delivered  himself 
with  conviction : 

"The  evidence  of  bad  behavior  is  sometimes  the  only 
mark  a  feller  makes  for  himself." 


JAUNT    TO    FORTY-FORT    CHURCH 

The  reference  to  the  rival  recalled  other  memories,  for 
presently  he  said: 

"Dad  and  me  set  right  up  here  in  this  pew  the  fust 
time  I  seen  Louisa.  She  was  mounting  the  steps  leading 
to  the  pulpit.  She  wa'n't  going  to  preach ;  them  wa'n't 
suffrag'st  days.  The  minister  was  down  sick  and  her  dad 
was  next  best  in  the  congregation.  Her  dad  hed  about 
begun  to  apologize  for  appearing  before  'm  when  he 
missed  his  bandanny  hankichef.  Louisa  fetched  it  up; 
it  was  a  big  hankichef,  yeller  and  red,  an'  was,  to  my 
notion  of  thenking,  the  showiest  part  of  the  pufformance ; 
but  nobody  expected  anything,  so  they  wan'n't  desap- 
pointed."  With  another  glance  in  Ruford's  direction 
hardly  encouraging,  he  continued : 

"I  bin  living  in  thes  part  of  the  kentry  for  many 
years;  I  hev'  knowed  men  who  was  here  or  whose  gran- 
dads hed  bin  here  before  thes  church  hed  a  spike  in  it ;  so 
I  guess  I'm  entitled  to  give  a  correct  version,  which  ain't 
to  be  got  from  books." 

No  one  had  observed  Maithele,  standing  with  her 
back  against  the  wall,  grow  suddenly  white  to  the  lips. 
A  man  passing  the  window  was  making  straight 
for  the  church  door.  Scott  was  delivering  a  humorous 
account  of  a  marriage  that  had  taken  place  thirty  years 
before,  the  contracting  parties  being  a  French  woman 
and  a  Shawnee  chief. 

"He  shall  not  enter,"  she  said;  "he  shall  not!"  But 
a  tremor  had  come  upon  her,  and  with  clasped  hands 
she  leaned  heavily  against  the  wall. 

In  a  moment  he  would  be  upon  the  steps.  Quick! 
She  glanced  at  the  group;  they  were  entranced  with 
Scott's  story  and  she  hurried  to  the  big  door,  and  faced 
Allan. 

"Stop  !    You  must  not  enter." 


148  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

Her  voice  seemed  far  away.  "You  are  not not 

invited." 

Instantly  lie  was  transfixed. 

But  it  was  the  echo  of  her  own  words  that  stung  her. 

"Go  away,"  she  spoke  in  softer  tones.  "Please,  before 
they  see  you." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  most  humbly;  I  did  not  mean  to 
intrude.  I  did  not  know;  there  is  a  mistake.  Scott 
brought  me  here." 

He  paused,  a  proud  defiance  in  his  tone.  "Certainly 
I  will  not  intrude,"  he  repeated. 

She  turned  to  the  door,  but  he  caught  her  gently  by  the 
sleeve. 

"I  must  speak  to  you;  there  is  something  I  must  say." 

He  passed  the  cruelty  of  her  words  in  his  eagerness  to 
get  her  attention. 

"I  do  not  care  to  hear." 

Her  hand  was  on  the  door,  with  an  effort  she  tried  it, 
but  it  was  heavy  and  would  not  open. 

"You  shall  listen — you  shall  know  the  truth — you 
must  know  it.  I  have  tried  so  many  times " 

"I  will  not  listen;  there  is  nothing  you  could  tell 
that  I  care  to  hear. 

"Maithele!"  he  cried,  "in  mercy  listen,  there  is  so 

much  and "  There  was  a  noise  as  of  steps  coming 

toward  the  door.  She  inclined  her  ear  attentively. 

"Quick !  Go !    They  must  not  see  you." 

"I  will  remain.  I  will  speak  before  them  all.  Dear!" 
he  pleaded,  "please,  I  shall  not  be  treated  like  this.  I 
shall  speak  before  them  all." 

"You  must  go,"  her  voice  nearly  broke. 

The  party  was  advancing;  in  a  moment  the  door 
would  open.  She  looked  at  him  beseechingly : 

"If  you  will  go  there,"  she  whispered,  pointing  to  the 


JAUNT    TO     FORTY-FORT     CHURCH    149 

side  of  the  church,  "I — I  will  speak  to  you  when  they 
are  gone." 

He  obeyed ;  and  even  as  she  slipped  the  big  key  out  of 
the  door  the  party  came  out. 

No  one  had  observed  her  absence,  save  Scott.  She 
touched  his  arm  and  whispered : 

"Leave  the  mare !"  At  the  same  time  she  put  the 
key  into  his  hand,  turning  to  Ruford : 

"Mr.  Scott  and  I  will  follow  presently." 

Ruford  looked  the  chagrin  he  felt,  but  Scott  carried 
the  day. 

"We'll  ketch  up  weth  you,  if  we  don't  change  our 
minds  and  run  off." 

Ruford  was  saying  something. 

"Oh,  the  key?  Wa'al,  it's  safe  with  me,"  said  Scott, 
and  Aunt  Helen  was  glad  when  Old  Sorrel's  head  turned 
homeward. 

"The  maids  will  have  the  luncheon  spread  when  we 
reach  the  Perkins  place,"  which  remark  Mrs.  Scott  did 
not  hear.  She  had  caught  sight  of  Allan  at  the  side  of 
the  house,  and  observed,  with  old-time  roses  tinting  her 
cheeks,  that  Si  and  Maithele  remained  behind.  But 
things  were  not  so  easy  with  Scott.  Maithele  turned  upon 
him  when  the  party  had  gone : 

"  Why  did  you  bring  him  here  ?  He  was  not  invited ; 
besides — I  hate  him !" 

"Wa'al,  I'll  swan!" 

His  quick  wit  deserted  him,  and  he  slunk  away  with 
his  hands  deep  in  the  pockets  of  his  round  coat. 

He  walked  eastward,  and  stood  in  solemn  contempla- 
tion above  a  new  grave. 

"I'll  swan!  if  it  don't  beat  creation!  If  I'd  knew  I 
wouldn't  took  so  much  trouble.  Anyway,  I  might  of 
fetched  Ted  or  Tasso  along  for  company." 


150  OUK  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

He  stretched  his  limbs  and  yawned : 

"It'll  git  lonesome  before  she  takes  thet  back."  Seat- 
ing himself  on  the  newly-made  grave,  he  produced  a 
hunk  of  tobacco,  but  he  hardly  twisted  a  morsel  and 
lifted  it  to  his  mouth,  ere  he  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Don't  like  to  set  on  folks  thet  ain't  thoroughly 
moulded ;  no  tellin'  how  close  their  spirits  be.  Guess  I'll 
look  after  the  hoss." 

He  stalked  off,  bobbing  his  head  in  a  sort  of  forward 
motion. 

"Wa'al  I'll  swan;  think  I'd  better  take  to  stretching 
my  own  judgment  now  an'  then." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

WE  TWO  SHALL  GO  OUR  SEPAEATE  WAYS. 

"You  have  something  to  say,"  she  interrogated  as 
Allan  came  forward. 

His  purpose  might  have  failed  utterly,  but  marking 
the  slight  trepidation  in  her  voice,  his  courage  lifted. 

"I — :I  was  not  responsible  for  the  announcement." 

"  That  is  your  excuse  ?"  she  inquired  icily. 

"No.    It  is  this:    I " 

"Could  not  discriminate  between  two  women?" 

An  agony  swept  his  face.  All  the  irony  and  spleen  of 
Clara  Lansing's  nature  could  not  hurt  as  the  slightest 
innuendo  from  the  girl  he  loved. 

"I  can  swallow  the  medicine,  only  please,  please,  allow 
me  to  speak  the  truth." 

"Don't  torture  yourself." 

Thrusting  her  hand  into  the  pocket  of  her  habit,  she 
brought  forth  a  daintily  scented  letter,  addressed  to 
"Miss  Dorothy  Dale." 

The  letter  reached  the  island  the  day  previous,  but 
Dorothy  turned  it  over  to  Maithele  only  an  hour  before 
the  party  set  out. 

"I  do  not  care  to  take  your  time,  and  you  will  please 
not  detain  me;  kindly  read." 

He  took  the  letter  from  her  hands  mechanically,  rec- 
ognizing the  chirography  his  expression  changed.  The 
letter  was  a  trifle  expansive,  but  he  merely  glanced 
over  it. 

151 


152  OUE  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Please  do  not  skip/'  spoke  Maithele,  observing  his 
countenance.  He  had  come  to  the  part  of  vital  impor- 
tance, and  he  read  aloud : 

"Of  course,  you  know  that  Kichard  Allan  has  been  my 
devoted  for  years.  We  have  decided  at  last  upon  Octo- 
ber first.  You  will,  of  course,  run  down  for  the  cere- 
mony. I  want  so  much  to  have  Miss  Burton  maid  of 
honor.  I  do  not  know  her  so  well,  but  Eichard  speaks 
so  highly  of  her.  I  thought  the  compliment  nice  to  him." 

It  was  Clara  Lansing's  first  inning. 

He  was  silent  for  several  seconds. 

"Maithele,"  he  began,  quietly,  "listen  to  me." 

"I  do  not  want  to  listen!  Why  should  I?  What  did  I 
do  to  you — to  her !  How  did  I  know  ?  Oh,  it  is  intol- 
erable— cruel !" 

The  pathos  in  her  voice  always  stirred  him.  He  fan- 
cied often  in  the  quiet  hour,  in  the  poetical  pause  of  life, 
that  the  voice  calling  to  him  were  he  in  his  grave  might 
resuscitate  life. 

"Dear!"  he  said,  "you  shall  hear  me!  Please!"  He 
opened  the  big  door,  gentle,  coaxing  her  within. 

"Sit  here,"  indicating  tne  steps  at  the  side  rear  of  the 
church,  leading  to  the  gallery  above. 

"Dear!"  he  whispered  again.  But  pride,  the  mighty 
rescuer,  ofttimes  saves  one's  self-esteem. 

"I  shall  not  remain.  Please  say  what  you  have  to  say 
at  once."  And  wearily  she  took  the  seat  indicated,  but 
in  a  moment  she  broke  forth  again : 

"I  hate  myself,  and  I  despise  her !" 

"Dear,"  he  repeated,  dropping  beside  her  on  the  step, 
"say  something — I  don't  mind;  the  agony  of  it  all" — 
resting  his  hand  upon  her  arm — "the  agony — is,  that  I 
discovered  too  late  that  you  cared !" 


WE  TWO  SHALL  GO  OUR  SEPARATE  WAYS  153 

"I  don't  care!  I  never  did  care!  I  only  thought  I 
did !  Oh,  to  be  humiliated !  It  is  intolerable !" 

"I  would  die  to  save  you  the  slightest  humiliation." 

"Indeed!  And  a  moment  ago  you  almost  demanded 
an  audience !" 

His  voice  was  humble. 

"I  did  not  know  of  the  letter  then.  I  was  willing  to 
explain — I  was  desperate." 

She  disregarded.  Her  voice  was  not  cruel,  only  the 
words  were  hard,  the  voice  never  sounded  sweeter  to 
Allan,  more  full  of  pathos. 

His  e}'es  closed  and  he  leaned  heavily  against  the  wall. 
When  he  spoke  again,  his  thought  seemed  rather  distrait. 

"Why — why — nobody  knew — our  engagement  was  so 
brief " 

"There  never  was  an  engagement — and,  please — you 
have  said  too  much." 

He  felt  the  rising  spirit. 

"I  have  never  said  too  much — to  you,"  he  persisted. 
"That  is  the  trouble;  I  said  too  little." 

She  sighed,  and,  finally,  with  a  pleading  note : 

"I  wish  you  would  go." 

"Xot  until  I  have  told  you  that  although  engaged  to 
Miss  Lansing — I — always — always  loved  you " 

"Everybody  knew — — "  She  paused  abruptly,  and  he 
waited,  feasting  his  eyes  upon  her  lovely  face. 

"What?" 

"People  can  be  so  detestably  sympathetic.  Dorothy 
nearly  stands  behind  my  chair,  Aunt  Helen  even  offered 
to  get  rid  of  Miss  Jack  Tiger,  if  her  purring  annoyed 
me.  Mrs.  Scott  is  abusing  the  whole  world — and " 

"Dear  little  girl !" 

"Please,"  with  a  sob  in  her  throat,  "don't  'dear'  me." 


154'  OUE  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

Her  words  were  words  again.  Their  dulcet  tone  en- 
couraged, and  he  smiled  upon  her. 

The  white  riding  cap  lay  in  her  lap,  her  face  was 
buried  in  her  hands,  and  an  inquisitive  yellow  heam, 
glancing  down  from  an  upper  window,  touched  her.  A 
miracle  followed;  the  soft  wealth  of  wavy  brown  hair 
was  a  mass  of  twisted  gold  threads.  Very  gently  his 
hand  rested  upon  the  beautiful  head. 

"One  strand,"  he  whispered,  "is  worth " 

The  door  of  the  church  creaked — opened — closed. 

He  faced  about ;  too  late ! 

A  glance  had  satisfied  the  intruder's  curiosity. 

"I  hope,"  said  Maithele,  rising,  "Mr.  Scott  is  not 
leaving  me." 

Allan  hurried  to  a  window. 

"No,  he  is  the  reliable;  the  flying  horse  bears  a  youth- 
ful rider,  a  red  jacket  and  a  blue  cap." 

"Miss  Rice,"  spoke  Maithele.  "I  wonder  why  she  re- 
turned?" 

"It  might  have  been  a  villager." 

"Hardly?  Our  guest  is  the  freaky-picturesque  of 
the  hills." 

The  intruder  hardly  produced  salutary  feelings.  Mai- 
thele had  other  thoughts  for  the  moment,  but  Allan's 
voice  recalled  her : 

"The  only  joy  in  my  life  will  be,"  he  began  once  more, 
"that  for  one  glorious  hour  I  had  your  love." 

She  turned  her  troubled  face  upon  him. 

"You  never  had  my  love.    Never!" 

He  knew  otherwise — listening  as  she  breathlessly 
continued : 

"I  never  loved  you — never?  I  never  shall  love  any 
one.  I  hate  men,  and  I  just  despise  women." 

The  eyelids  drooped  and  the  long  lashes  nearly  swept 


WE  TWO  SHALL  GO  OUK  SEPARATE  WAYS  155 

the  cheeks ;  the  mouth — the  intensely  fascinating  mouth 
— languished. 

He  rejoiced — her  very  look  was  love. 

"It  is  a  long  story,"  venturing  gently. 

But  she  rose  at  once ;  he  stood  beside  her. 

"I  don't  care  to  hear  it — I  want  to  go  outside — Mr. 
Scott  is  waiting — please — if  you  will  let  me  pass." 

She  was  tired  out,  and  the  cruel  rush  of  memories 
upon  her  sympathetic  emotions  was  forcing  the  eyes  to 
an  embarrassing  confession. 

He  lifted  her  face;  they  were  so  near.  Tears  were 
interfering;  she  was  ashamed — ashamed  that  he  should 
see !  While  trying  to  conquer  them,  he  pressed  an  advan- 
tage, his  arm  stealing  about  her  waist. 

"Oh,  why,"  her  voice  came  at  last,  "why  did  every- 
body die  belonging  to  me !" 

"Lily  of  God — I  belong  to  you!" 

She  did  not  speak ;  could  not,  perhaps,  and  an  intense 
expression  swept  his  countenance. 

"By  every  right  of  heaven  and  earth !"  he  cried,  "I — I 
cannot — cannot,"  passionately  folding  her  to  his  heart, 
and  with  an  upward  appeal,  that  mayhap  reached  the 
Throne,  "I  cannot,  will  not,  give  you  up !" 

She  felt  a  dreaminess,  and  then  his  lips  upon  eyes, 
hair,  mouth. 

The  certainty  of  mutual  feeling  is  never  a  hopeless  dis- 
regard, nor  does  it  ever  meet  a  swift  rebuff. 

In  a  moment,  however,  she  was  free  of  his  embrace — 
free,  unfearing,  yet  trembling. 

"I  beg  of  you,  I  must  go." 

"I  shall  not  detain  you  long,"  he  said,  "but  you  must 
hear  me.  It  is  just  to  you — to  myself.  Forgive!  I 
promise,  I  shall  not  forget  again !" 

She  seated  herself  wearily,  resting  her  head  against 


156  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

the  wooden  railing  of  the  stair ;  he  followed  her  example, 
subsiding  upon  the  step  below,  and  rested  his  shoulders 
against  the  unvarnished  wall. 

"  Since  the  first  hour  when  I  saw  you — a  little  girl  in 
white  frock  and  black  ribbons,  facing  a  great  audience, 
refined,  cultured,  gaining  its  attention  and  meriting  its 
applause — since  the  first  moment,  I  have  loved  you !  I 
realize  now  that  it  was  your  soul  in  the  melody  that 
awakened  my  own  soul  to  hopes,  dreams,  too  sweet  to  be 
fulfilled." 

Her  eyes  were  quite  closed  and  her  hands  rested  in  her 
lap ;  her  whole  attitude  expressed  weariness — surrender. 
But  the  keen,  fine  intellect,  the  unselfish  nature  of  Allan 
absorbing,  by  a  quick  glance,  her  hopeless  attitude,  de- 
termined to  show  that  mercy  due  the  woman  he  loved. 

He  passed  the  selfish  joy  her  presence  afforded  him, 
and  hurried  through  the  details,  with  clear,  concise  un- 
derstanding. He  did  not  spare  himself,  hesitated  only 
where  Clara  Lansing  was  concerned,  and  passed  lightly 
as  possible  the  interview  in  Clara  Lansing's  draw- 
ing-room. Her  eyes  were  very  wide,  as  the  story 
came  to  an  end,  and  their  great  deeps  spoke  the  change 
that  was  taking  place  in  her  judgment  of  himself.  She 
sighed  once,  sighed  again,  and  shivered  perceptibly  when 
he  mentioned  Clara  Lansing.  With  that  pretty  manner 
so  natural  and  unaffected,  her  head  dropped  to  one  side, 
the  hands  resting  under  the  chin. 

The  church  was  so  very  still — sometimes  as  he  paused 
the  last  word  falling  from  his  lips  flew  up  into  the  raft- 
ers and  returned  again  faintly,  like  the  echo  of  a  sigh. 
His  voice  ceased  at  last. 

"That  is  all— dear  heart." 

She  had  not  spoken  during  the  recital,  and  as  he 
turned  to  her  expectantly  she  leaned  forward,  resting 


WE  TWO  SHALL  GO  OUR  SEPARATE  WAYS  157 

both  hands  upon  his  head,  and  he  felt  the  benison  and 
the  forgiveness. 

"I  understand.  One  must  be  sacrificed.  I  will  be 
that  one.  You  will  be  kind  to  her — faithful."  She 
paused,  her  eyes  afar;  possibly  they  rested  upon  the 
spiral  stairway  leading  to  the  rostrum,  possibly  passing 
the  rostrum  to  the  hollow  recess  above ;  she  saw  nothing. 
A  blackness  hung  before  the  future — cold  and  desolate. 

"After  all,  Richard,  she  loves  you  and  you  are  not 
blameless." 

She  stood  up. 

"I  will  go  now  to  Mr.  Scott." 

They  went  forward,  but,  reaching  the  door,  she 
turned  to  him : 

"Stay ;  Richard,  I  will  go  alone." 

He  understood. 

With  her  hand  upon  the  door  she  faltered  and  quickly 
his  arms  extended  pleadingly. 

Her  head  swayed  an  instant: 

"I  am  glad  that  I  listened;  glad  that  I  know " 

Her  voice  broke,  but  instantly  she  grew  strong  again. 

"The  life  we  have  lost  is  the  higher  gain;  in  spirit  I 
will  be  with  you  always,  dear  Richard." 

He  moved  a  step  forward,  but  she  lifted  her  hand,  the 
light  in  her  eyes  unmistakable. 

"We  two  shall  go  our  separate  ways.  Good-by.  You 
are  a  man,  brave,  upright!  Honor,  Richard,  is  more 
than  love — good-by.  God  be  with  you !" 

The  door  opened — closed.  And  he  sank  into  one  of 
the  high  pews,  a  sob  more  despairing  than  the  old  church 
had  ever  heard,  breaking  upon  its  stillness.  But  the  in- 
dulgence of  tears  is  the  unpardonable  sin.  He  lifted  his 
bowed  head.  The  call  to  active  life  had  sent  a  warning 
note. 


158  OUK  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Yes,  there  is  time/  he  said,  listening,  "I  must  be  off ; 
they  must  not  find  me  here." 

And  even  as  he  mounted  his  good  horse,  his  vision  fell 
upon  the  woman  he  would  always  love.  She  was  walk- 
ing slowly  toward  the  church. 

There  are  pictures  that  live  to  the  end  of  one's  days, 
and,  mayhap,  are  carried  to  that  life  beyond. 

"God  be  with  you,  dear,"  he  murmured. 

She  did  not  hear — did  not  see.  He  lifted  his  hat,  and 
his  horse  plunged  forward. 

The  braver  the  heart,  the  clearer  the  brain,  the  more 
intense  the  enduring  quality — the  capacity  for  suffering. 
The  noblest  aim  is  holding  the  sun  of  one's  nature  as  a 
guard  at  the  door;  for,  there  is  grayness  so  deep  and 
tears  so  bitter,  that  did  the  gold  shield  but  momentarily 
vanish,  the  rush  forward  of  darkness  would  surely  en- 
velop the  very  soul. 

Maithele  was  glad  that  th,e  day  was  over — glad  when 
at  last  she  could  retire  to  her  own  room  and  the  solitude 
the  hour  afforded.  She  had  not  given  the  smallest  hint 
to  any  one;  not  even  Scott  had  been  able  to  penetrate 
beyond  the  quiet  reserve  that  proved  nothing. 

But  the  heart  overflowing  must  have  its  outlet.  She 
communed  with  the  violin,  and  the  strange  mysterious 
wonder  of  its  sympathy,  calling  with  tender  resonance 
from  a  chapter  ended,  soothed  and  lulled  and  lifted  her 
drooping  spirit. 

It  was  over.  The  big  clock  at  the  end  of  the  hall  told 
the  mid-hour.  She  dropped  upon  her  knees. 

"Heavenly  father!" 

Sweet,  simple,  human  cry ! 

It  was  enough.  The  spirit  of  Night  bore  upward  the 
pearl  of  immolation. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

TEDDY  E.  FIGURES  IN  A  TRADE. 

SCOTT  had  been  away  from  home  several  days.  Possi- 
bly the  dogs  miscalculated  the  time  of  his  return. 

It  made  him  feel  young  and  happy  to  see  Louisa  wait- 
ing in  the  open  door  and  to  hear  the  yelping  and  barking 
of  his  good  friends  on  the  far  side  of  the  fence. 

He  had  driven  up  to  the  gate  about  dusk. 

Mrs.  Scott's  quick  ear  catching  the  sound  of  wheels, 
she  had  the  front  door  open  before  the  master  alighted, 
but  the  dogs  were  not  in  evidence. 

"I  declare,  Louisa,"  he  said,  coming  up  the  steps,  "if 
thes  is  the  way  the  dogs  protect  you  an'  receive  me,  we 
Better  git  rid  of  the  bunch." 

They  went  inside.  Having  gained  the  confidence  of 
Allan  to  the  extent  that  Allan  was  bound  to  Clara  Lan- 
sing, Scott  constituted  himself  go-between.  The  mission 
had  not  failed  utterly,  yet  Scott  was  out  of  sorts.  After 
a  light  supper  he  retired,  promising  to  regulate  his 
household  in  the  morning.  But  it  was  quite  in  the  after- 
noon of  the  following  day  before  the  dogs  were  called 
to  order. 

Mrs.  Scott's  first  intimation  of  a  hurricane  was  the 
sliding  of  Tasso  into  the  living-room,  a  weary  look  on  the 
sad,  thoughtful  face  as  he  found  a  dark  corner  and  curled 
up  into  a  knot.  She  began  at  once  to  gather  the  socks 
and  darning  cotton  into  a  bundle. 

159 


160  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"It  certainly  is  a  shame  the  way  Si  do  go  on  at  times. 
Tasso  you  hev'  sense ;  you  won't  git  hurt  if  you  keep  out 
of  his  way." 

She  passed  through  the  hall,  calling  Prudence  to 
order,  entered  the  kitchen  and  poked  her  head  out  of  the 
window. 

"They  be  jest  about  as  contrary  as  human  beings,". 
Scott  declared  as  Louisa  remonstrated  with  him. 

"You  don't  know  a  dog  'tel  you  hev'  hed  him  about 
ten  year,  then  his  qualities  stand  prominent  as  he's  most 
ready  to  die." 

He  paused,  glancing  at  his  wife. 

"I  have  a  notion  to  trade  Ted." 

"If  thet's  all  the  trouble,  there  be  Andy  Brownson 
hanging  over  the  fence  now;  you  might  strike  a  bargain." 

"See  here,  Louisa,  I  said  I  hed  a  notion  to  trade;  no 
call  for  jumping  a  fence  weth  a  bargain.  Besides" — jerk- 
ing his  hat  from  his  head  and  fanning  with  it — "the 
world  wa'n't  made  in  a  day." 

"Ho,  there  Andy,"  called  Mrs.  Scott;  "Si  wants  to  sell 
Teddy  R." 

Andy  slouched  through  the  gate,  a  podgy  fellow  in  a 
short  russet  coat  and  jean  trousers,  rather  baggy  at  the 
knees.  His  hair  was  red,  his  skin  freckled.  Andy  was  a 
type ;  dozens  of  his  kind  might  be  found  within  walking 
distance  of  the  nearest  town. 

Andy  passed  the  compliments  of  the  day  to  Mrs.  Scott 
and  came  directly  to  business  with  Silas. 

"What'll  ye  take  for  him?" 

"What'llyegive?" 

Instinctively  the  dog  felt  himself  discussed  and  natur- 
ally concluded  the  trouble  meant  a  flogging. 

Mrs.  Scott  had  come  into  the  yard  and  was  standing 
by  the  steps. 


TEDDY  R. 


TEDDY  R.  FIGURES  IN  A  TRADE        161 

Ted  crouched  servilely  at  her  feet  and  Andy  passed 
Scott's  interrogation,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  while 
Andy  with  one  foot  kept  up  a  shifting  motion  with  the 
ground. 

"How  long  ye  had  him  ?"  Andy  inquired. 

"Long  enough  to  know  his  qualities." 

"Is  they  bad  or  good?" 

"Middling." 

Comment  might  have  ended  had  not  Andy  put  his 
hand  caressingly  forward. 

The  dog  snarled,  and  a  merry  twinkle  came  into 
Scott's  eyes. 

"Ted'll  stand  a  licking  from  home  folks,  but  he  won't 
be  pawed  on  by  strangers." 

Andy  moved  to  a  respectable  distance  and  Ted  blinked 
knowingly,  wagging  his  tail.  With  manner  inclined  to 
chuffiness  Andy  advanced. 

"Whet's  yer  price?" 

Scott  waved  his  hand  deprecatingly : 

"Wa'al,  if  it's  up  to  me,"  said  Andy,  "five  plunks 
down  and  twenty  on  time." 

Scott's  face  was  a  study.  He  sat  down  upon  the 
kitchen  steps,  jerking  his  slouch  hat  over  his  eyes. 

"If  Louisa  wa'n't  around,  Andy  Brownson,  I'd  tell 
you  to  go  to  a  kentry  where  they  use  brimstone  for 
kindling." 

Andy  grinned. 

"Much  ableeged  for  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Scott."  He 
scraped  his  foot  and  nodded  his  head  at  the  lady. 

He  was  standing  beneath  an  apple  tree  that  grew  near 
the  kitchen  window,  whittling  with  a  huge  knife. 

Scott  was  annoyed.  Hacking  a  fine  tree  is  vandalism 
and  Scott  hinted  that  Andy's  rudeness  was  objectionable. 


162  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Brains  is  all  alike,  Andy,  only  some  people's  seem  to 
be  alwus  going  round  like  they  was  in  a  tub  of  water." 

"Bow-wow"  called  Teddy  R. 

"You  shut,"  called  Scott,  giving  his  attention  again 
to  Andy.  "You've  heard  about  George  Washington's 
hatchet?  Now  what  I  thenk  thet  chap  used  on  his  dad's 
apple  tree,  Andy  Brownson,  was  a  knife." 

Andy  took  the  hint,  shoving  the  knife  into  his  pocket 
with  a  grin. 

"I  hain't  throwing  money  to  the  birds,"  vouchsafed 
Andy,  affecting  a  renewal  of  the  proposed  sale. 

"An*  we  ain't  in  habit  of  fleecing  sheep." 

"I'll  raise,"  continued  Andy,  unheeding.  He  had  al- 
ways wanted  Teddy  R, 

"I'll  trade  the  calf  and  about  seven  of  them  ginny- 
hens  into  the  bargain." 

At  the  word  guinea-hens,  Mrs.  Scott  lifted  her  hands 
in  horror. 

"Lan'  sakes  alive !  Ginny-hens !  Why,  Andy  Brown- 
son,  if  you  so  much  as  show  a  ginny-hen  thet  gate," 
pointing  to  the  side  way,  "I'll  hev'  you  up  at  meeting 
for  other  things  you  hev'  done — certainly  worse." 

"Con'soun'  your  empitence,"  said  Scott,  cocking  his 
hat;  "I'm  half  a  mind  to  sic'  the  General  on  you.  Five 
cash  an'  twenty  on  time,  seven  ginny-hens  an'  a  calf  for 
a  thoroughbred  like  Teddy  R !" 

"I  can  stand  for  anything  but  ginny-hens,"  put  in 
Mrs.  Scott,  loquaciously. 

"Mebbe,  Si,"  Andy  insinuated,  "ye'd  like  my  house 
an'  lot  throw'd  in." 

His  expression  was  mean  and  he  assumed  a  rowdy 
manner. 

"Mebbe  I  wouldn't  consider  it  weth  the  farm  added." 

Andy's  eyes  opened  wide;  he  picked  up  a  twig  that  he 


TEDDY  R.  FIGURES  IN  A  TRADE        163 

had  broken  from  the  apple  tree  and  hurled  it  straight 
before  him,  looking  at  Scott  keenly,  and  with  a  leer  and 
a  wink : 

"If  I'd  throw  in  the  old  woman ?" 

Andy  was  newly  married,  and  his  wife  was  quite 
pretty. 

Scott  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant. 

"Don't  use  common  talk  before  Louisa."  Scott 
doubled  his  fist.  General  felt  trouble.  A  peculiar  look 
or  sniff  in  the  air  brought  up  the  forces,  and  Andy  sent 
longing  glances  toward  the  fence,  calculating  leaps. 

Scott  anticipated. 

"Ted  would  git  ye,  if  General  missed.  There  be  the 
gate.  I  know  you  now  Andy  Brownson  for  a  ornery 
brow-beat.  An'  Andy,"  calling  to  the  retreating  figure, 
"tell  your  friends  the  encounter,  if  you  mind,  an'  put 
thes  on  to  it:  Thet  dog,  notwithstanding  his  natural 
proclivities,  ain't  got  no  price." 

Andy  was  rather  glad  to  have  gotten  off  so  easily.  He 
did  not  turn  to  say  good-by  or  lift  his  hat  to  Mrs.  Scott, 
but  passing  through  the  side  gate,  paused  only  a  second, 
shaking  it  slightly  to  see  that  it  was  secure. 

"Wa'al,"  said  Scott,  watching  the  retreating  figure, 
"if  I  wa'n't  a  gentleman,  I'd  call  thet  feller  a  skunk." 

"Ginny-hens,"  repeated  Mrs.  Scott,  "ginny-hens." 
And  laughing  softly,  the  lovers  went  inside,  Prudence 
banging  the  kitchen  window,  which  signal  meant  con- 
siderably more  than  the  customary  "dinner  is  served." 

The  table  looked  inviting,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scott 
sat  down,  Scott  beginning  at  once  to  carve  the  fowl. 
Scott  was  a  dextrous  carver;  the  bird  was  roasted  to 
a  turn,  and  as  he  lifted  it  gracefully  Mrs.  Scott  smiled 
to  see  it  part  beautifully  on  the  fork." 

"Wa'al,  my  dear,  what'll  you  hev?" 


164  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

Scott  rested  the  big  knife  and  reversed  its  two- 
pronged  mate. 

Mrs.  Scott  always  claimed  gizzard  and  heart,  leaving 
the  supply  to  Scott's  generous  hand. 

"Oh,  anything,  Si." 

"Might  as  well  hev'  your  choice." 

"Hev'  your  way,  being's  thers  no  company."  Prud- 
ence passed  the  vegetables  and  retired. 

"Shet  the  door,"  said  Mrs.  Scott  gently  to  Prudence; 
"there  be  a  chilly  feelin'  coming  from  the  kitchen." 

"Yes,  'um,'  the  girl  replied,  "an'  if  you  want  any- 
thing, ring  the  bell  hard.  I  might  be  out'n  the  road 
talking  with  Andy." 

"What?"  exclaimed  Scott,  with  ire;  "thet  feller  ain't 
still  hanging  around  this  place?" 

"He's  gone,  sir,  I  think;  but  he  might  return — me 
and  his  wife's  kin." 

"Wa'al,  I'll  swan!  Mighty  glad,  Louisa,  the  kin 
ain't  on  Andy's  side  or  she'd  hev'  to  go." 

Mrs.  Scott  thoroughly  understood  the  man  she  loved; 
she  did  not  interrupt  as  he  made  several  strong  remarks 
regarding  Andy.  She  held  her  peace  until  the  wine  was 
served. 

Scott  had  brought  the  bottle  up  from  the  city  the 
evening  before,  and  she  knew  that  bouquets  were  in  order. 

Tasting  the  beverage,  she  nodded  approvingly. 

"I'm  glad  the  dinner  ain't  disappointing,  for  the 
wine  isn't." 

"Glad  you  like  it.     It  didn't  cost  much,"  chuckling. 

"You  art  n't  to  spend  your  money  reckless,  Si.  I'm 
willing  to  bet  that  bottle  cost  about  a  dollar." 

Scott  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"Yes,  Louisa,  it  cost  about  a  dollar,  more  or  less." 


TEDDY  R.  FIGURES  IN  A  TRADE        165 

"I  bed  a  mind,"  she  said,  tactfully,  "to  ast  you  how 
you  got  on  in  town  yestidy." 

"Oh,  middling;  I  meant,"  he  continued,  "to  tell  you 
last  night,  but  I  was  so  blamed  riled  an'  upset." 

"I  know  you  was,  dear." 

"Louisa!" — he  paused,  helping  himself  to  a  radish — 
"I'm  goin'  to  see  thes  thing  through." 

As  he  went  into  detail  the  silver  fork  stood  upward 
in  his  fist,  which  now  and  then  came  down  heavily  upon 
the  table.  "  I'm  going  to  see  thes  thing  through.  Love's 
a  real  campagne,  Louisa;  an1  it's  jest  as  fair  for  me  to 
play  scout  in  thes  engagement  as  it  was  back  in  Civil 
War  times." 

He  took  a  generous  taste  of  the  wine  and  nodded  to 
Mrs.  Scott. 

"Ye're  right;  it's  fine." 

The  object  of  his  trip  to  the  metropolis  having  formed 
the  preliminary,  he  came  at  once  to  his  story.  So  far 
Mrs.  Scott  had  not  made  the  slightest  comment;  she 
hoped  he  was  leading  to  the  subject  at  heart.  His 
next  words  reassured  her. 

"I  dropped  in  on  Lansing  yestidy." 

Her  heart  bounded,  but  she  gave  no  sign  as  she  in- 
quired, calmly : 

"An'  bought  a  slice  of  wuthless  stock,  I'll  be  bound." 

"  Xo,  Louisa ;  I  might  hev'  done  thet  twenty  year  ago 
— I  only  promises  to  buy  these  days.  Howsomever, 
Lansing  is  a  rare  old  chap.  He  was  mighty  pleased  weth 
my  counterfeit  ententions." 

Another  generous  sip  of  the  wine,  and  he  proceeded : 

"I  worked  my  way  to  an  envite  to  the  house." 

"If  you  promised  to  buy  the  stock,  you  hev'  to  do 
it,  Si." 

"Wai,  yes,  if  I'm  driv*  to  the  wall?    But  it  ain't 


166  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

likely  thet  I  will  be,"  he  went  on  slowly.  "I  hey*  a 
snug  sum  put  aside  for  a  wedding  thet  might  take  place. 
Better  use  it  to  get,  'm,  married,  then  save  it  for  the 
occasion  thet  might  hev'  bin." 

"You  got  an  awful  head,  Si." 

Neither  spoke  for  a  moment,  and  then,  nearly  over- 
come with  anxiety,  she  inquired,  straightforwardly : 

"Did  you  see  Clara  Lansing?" 

"Thet's  what  I  went  for." 

"An'  what  did  she  say?" 

"Wa'al,  she  didn't  take  me  into  her  confidence." 

"She  didn't?" 

"No,  she  didn't;  but  I  took  her  into  mine." 

"I  hope  you  didn't  come  right  out  an'  say  things?" 

"Wa'al,  I  didn't  set  around  chewing  the  cud;  after 
we'd  conversed  for  a  spell  I  ast  her  out  for  a  drive." 

"You  did!    I  hope  your  necktie  was  on  straight." 

"Oh,  I  guess  it  was — I  spruced  up  some." 

"I'm  mighty  glad  you  did;  they  air  mighty  set  in 
N'York  about  looking  jest  so." 

"She  didn't  seem  overwilling  to  go  hi  fust?"  Scott 
ventured. 

Mrs.  Scott  held  her  head  high. 

"I  thenk  a  queen  might  be  proud  to  ride  with  you, 
Silas." 

"Mebbe;  but  I  don't  take  to  foreign'rs,  so  there  ain't 
bin  any  o-casion  to  find  out.  Besides,  I  hev'  never  seen 
a  real  queen.  You  be  about  as " 

"Oh,  go  on,  Si,"  she  cut  in.  "Don't  study  so  much 
about  me;  I'm  dying  to  hear  what  you  an'  Clara 
Lansing  had  to  say." 

"It  was  slow  at  fust,"  he  began.  "I  hed  the  rig 
waiting  at  the  sidewalk,  an',  as  she  was  fixed  up  real 
han'some,  we  walked  out  an'  got  into  the  rig.  We  rode 


TEDDY  R.  FIGURES  IN  A  TRADE        167 

on  an'  on  wethout  saying  anytheng — couldn't  make  her 
talk.  But  on  the  home  stretch  we  was  neck  to  neck." 

"  Silas,  do  you  mean  thet  in  hoss  sense,  or " 

Scott  laughed. 

"It's  a  real  fact." 

His  wife  looked  dubious,  but  brightened  again  as  he 
continued : 

"I  tol'  her  a  lot  of  nice  things  about  herself,  an'  thet 
got  her  pleased.  Presently  I  said,  'Miss  Lansing,  do 
you  want  a  fine  dog  ?'  " 

"Si,  you  didn't!" 

"Suthen  bed  to  be  sacrificed;  besides,  I  don't  like  the 
ways  of  Teddy,  Jr.  I  ast  her  to  come  down  to  our  place 
an'  rest  a  spell  before  the  wed'ing." 

"Now,  Si?" 

Scott  chuckled,  thinking  how  easy  it  would  be  to 
break  the  engagement  if  he  had  succeeded  in  getting 
her  to  his  place. 

"Declare!" 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"Declined!  Then  I  said,  fair  and  square:  'You  and 
Dick  Allan  never  going  to  hitch,  girl !'  I  thought  I  bed 
give  her  one,  but  she  says,  with  a  toss  of  her  head :  'We 
be  the  best  jedge  of  that.'  " 

"Then  what  did  ye  say?" 

Mrs.  Scott  was  all  excitement. 

"  'Oh, '  I  said,  'it  don't  make  no  difference — marry 
one  day,  di-vorce  the  next.'  I  thenk  I  sent  a  bomb  into 
camp,  but  can't  tell." 

Mrs.  Scott's  excitement  passed  to  instant  depression. 

"Hev'  the  wing,  Louisa?" 

She  passed  her  plate. 

"Did  she  ast  about  the  Dales?  I  would  'a'  thought 
she  hed  some  curiosity." 


168  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Some,"  repeated  Scott;  "she  has  her  share.  But 
it's  the  eddicated  kind — that  sends  out  feelers;  for  en- 
stance,  she  said  it  was  too  bad  Dorothy's  ball  was  booked 
for  the  same  date  as  her  wed'ing." 

"I  hope  you  ain't  meddling  over-much  in  other 
people's  affairs,  Si." 

"Thet  depends  on  what  you  calls  meddling.  Wa'al, 
I  ain't  poking  my  head  into  the  halter." 

Mrs.  Scott  broke  in : 

"I  bin  studying  the  ins  an'  outs  of  the  setuation,  an' 
it  'pears  to  me  if  Dick  done  pledged  himself  to  thet 
girl,  I  don't  see  out  of  common  sense  how  you  going 
to  change  it." 

Scott  fidgeted  with  his  fork,  looking  thoroughly  irri- 
tated. It  is  not  pleasant  to  have  one's  pet  scheme  set 
aside  or  rudely  handled,  even  by  one's  dearly  beloved. 

"I  can't  see  in  the  name  of  common  sense  what  you 
driving  at,  Louisa — seems  you  alwus  getting  side- 
tracked." 

"I'm  on  the  main  line.  It's  you,  Si,  thet's  puffing 
an'  blowing  on  the  side-track." 

At  this  juncture  something  came  into  the  room,  brown 
and  glossy.  It  seemed  uncertain  as  to  welcome,  getting 
across  the  room  with  shambling  gait.  Scott  felt  a  third 
presence,  which,  coupled  with  his  wife's  clever  corner- 
ing, somewhat  ruffled  him. 

Rolling  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  interloper,  he 
motioned  with  his  thumb.  The  force  of  the  argument 
was  unmistakable. 

The  bullpup  slid  around  the  table  and  made  for  the 
hall  door  again,  with  a  different  idea  of  sociability. 

"Before  you  git  on  steam,  Louisa,  hand  up  thet  dish 
of  apple-sas." 

"I  bin  thenkeng,"  she  remarked,  having  forwarded 


TEDDY  R.  FIGURES  IX  A  TRADE        169 

the  dish,  "if  his  ententions  was  fair  an'  square  to  Clara 
Lansing,  how  in  the  name  of  Prov'dence  could  they  hev' 
bin  the  same  to  Maithele  ?" 

As  Scott's  eyes  twinkled  with  an  undeveloped  question, 
she  hurried  on : 

"I  only  know  what  I  got  confidential  from  Dorothy's 
aunt,  who  wormed  it  out  of  Maithele." 

"Gad,  but  women  jest  can " 

"She  had  to  go  'round-about  ways  for  Maithele's 
good." 

"She  hed,  eh?  Wa'al,  keep  right  on;  I  see  Dick's 
finish — the  hull  combine's  agin'  him." 

"Ther'  you  go,  Si — alwus  siding  weth  the  man." 

"Somebody's  got  to  stand  by  a  feller  when  a  whole 
bunch  of  females  is  combined  agin'  him." 

"Mebbe  you  better  hear  the  evidence.  It's  curious," 
she  sighed,  thinking  of  Allan,  "how  a  man'll  let  hes 
best  chanct  slip." 

"If  you  don't  talk  'tel  night,  Louisa,  I'm  attention." 

She  told  the  story,  unsatisfactorily,  perhaps,  compared 
with  the  correct  version. 

Aunt  Helen's  solicitude  overstepped  the  mark — she 
had  "wormed"  nothing  out  of  Maithele.  Pressed  se- 
verely, Maithele  had  candidly  admitted  the  esteem  in 
which  she  had  always  held  Allan.  She  laughed  gently 
at  Aunt  Helen's  fears,  admitting  only  that  her  heart 
was  unchanged.  Upon  this  last  point  Mrs.  Scott  rested 
her  opinion. 

"A  man's  got  to  stick  to  his  honorable  ententions — 
they  ain't  no  way  out  of  that." 

Scott  was  a  rather  good  listener  when  chippings  from 
his  own  views  were  tolerated  as  punctuations;  but  he 
had  not  introduced  so  much  as  a  comma  during  the 
interesting  recital,  until  her  last  remark. 


170  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Circumstances  alter  ententions,  Louisa." 

"Thet's  new  on  me." 

Her  head  tilted  a  trifle,  and  Scott  felt  slightly  under 
surveillance. 

"I  was  steadfast  courting  you,  Louisa;  but,  the  way 
I  was  treated,  I  might  hev'  give  out  an'  contracted  weth 
the  other  girl.  Now,  will  you  please  tell  me,  which  case 
would  a-bin  honorable  ententions?" 

The  problem  staggered  Mrs.  Scott.  Something  came 
to  her  all  in  a  rush.  She  hesitated  a  moment  before 
admitting  the  new  thought. 

"I  hope  there  wa'n't  no  truth  in  Cousin  Polly's  stat'- 
ment  thet  a  tow-head  widow  hed  a  claim  on  ye?" 

Scott  ran  his  fingers  through  his  iron-gray  hair.  Mrs. 
Scott  had  planted  the  standard. 

"H'm,"  he  said,  gaining  time,  and  Louisa's  lips  set. 

"She  didn't  hev*  no  perticular  cinch  on  me." 

"Was  there  anything  a-tween  ye?" 

Scott  experienced  the  sensation  of  uncertain  ground. 

"There  might  a-bin  a  rail  fence,"  he  returned,  la- 
conically. 

"Just  what  Polly  said,  an'  I  wouldn't  believe  her." 

Mrs.  Scott  was  all  unnerved. 

True  love  never  dies,  even  when  gray  hairs  and 
wrinkles  send  it  seemingly  into  retirement;  it  will 
spring  forth  suddenly  when  rudely  attacked  with  force 
and  energy — even  with  youth  and  beauty — beyond  "the 
ken  of  human  understanding. 

"I  wouldn't  a-married  you  if  I'd  known,"  she  said, 
with  a  catch  in  her  voice. 

His  eyes  fixed  upon  her  with  a  tender  light. 

"Ye  be  the  only  woman  in  the  world  I  ever  loved; 
but,  Louisa,  you  did  pester  me  most  to  death.  Mebbe 


TEDDY  R.  FIGUEES  IN  A  TRADE        171 

it's  on  my  conscience  thet  onct  or  twict  I  did  look  askance 
at  the  widow." 

He  straightened  the  slightly  awkward  attitude  he  had 
been  affecting  and  sat  very  erect,  his  head  slightly  tilted, 
which  position  brought  the  square  jaw  into  prominence; 
while  something  of  defiance  came  into  his  voice  and  he 
brought  his  big  brown  fist  down  upon  the  table. 

"  I  tell  you  thes  an'  mean  it :  A  man's  honorable  en- 
tentions  is  alwus  weth  the  girl  he  loves — the  other  girl 
ain't  wuth  shucks;  an'  if — which  I  didn't — but  I  say, 
if  I  hed,  being  riled  weth  you,  courted  the  widow,  made 
a  fool  of  myself — which  I  didn't — but  if  I  hed,  I'd 
a-shook  the  widow  in  the  face  of  the  parson  if  at  the 
very  last  minute  I  caught  on  thet  you  was  to  be  hed." 

Mrs.  Scott  revived. 

The  woman  hardly  lives  who  would  not  have  acqui- 
esced as  did  this  one. 

"Love  is  powerful,"  she  said  softly.  "I  guess  I'd 
a-tore  her  hair  out,  if  she'd  a-took,  knowingly,  what 
didn't  belong  to  her." 

After  a  moment  of  silence,  in  which  Scott's  mental 
vision  reviewed  the  hair-pulling  situation,  he  broke  into 
a  hearty  laugh.  ^ 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha !  I  guess  you  would — ha,  ha,  ha ! — guess 
you  would." 

The  kitchen  door  opened  and  Prudence  poked  her 
head  into  the  room,  and  inquired,  in  a  somewhat  weary 
voice,  if  she  could  bring  in  the  custard. 

"  Custard,  did  you  say  ?  Louisa,  you  must  a-bin  think- 
ing of  the  babies  we  art  of  hed.  Drop  some  whisky  into 
mine  an'  stir  it  up." 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

THE  ASSAULT  IN  THE  HILLS. 

THE  early  hours  hang  heavy  in  the  Vale  of  Wyoming, 
and  darkness  lifts  with  slow  precision  as  morning's  red 
lamp  swings  through  dreamy  dimness  unto  the  highest 
eastern  peak.  Then,  straightway,  meadows'  bloom  and 
rivers'  flowing  catch  the  erubescent  glow. 

Back  of  the  mountain  heights  long  strips  of  mauve 
and  tissue  veils  of  silver  lift,  revealing  mysterious  walls 
of  limpid  turquoise.  And  gray  mists,  hanging  low,  un- 
dulate, scurry,  and  melt  into  gold.  Then  up,  up  from 
nests  builded  in  tree  top  or  hung  in  vine-stripped bouldfii— 
flocks  of  brown- winged  creatures  flit  hither — whither? 
Across  country,  east,  west — wherever  the  grain  is  sown 
— their  brown  wings  stretching,  tip  with  aureate  light, 
and  a  russet  softness  creeps  upon  the  winding  road. 

A  man  arrived  at  the  top  of  Mount  Lookout.  He 
had  been  traveling  through  the  mountains  since  the 
break  of  dawn.  Business  ended  with  a  railroad  official 
summering  up  in  the  vicinity  of  the  great  eminence.  He 
urged  his  horse  along. 

And  the  magnificent  panorama  breaking  upon  his 
vision  exalted  and  held  him,  his  eyes  following  a  longi- 
tudinal stretch  of  mountain  chaos,  dropped  in  the  center 
of  which  three  cities — Pittston,Wilkes-Barre,Scranton — 
like  etchings  in  a  huge,  deep-cut  bowl  of  greenish  gold. 

172 


THE    ASSAULT    IN    THE    HILLS      173 

He  adjusted  the  lens  lightly,  renewing  the  study. 

To  the  right,  down  the  river  on  the  opposite  side,  a 
slim,  white  shaft  lifted  into  the  scene — he  recognized  the 
monument — wherereposethe  bones  of  slaughtered  heroes, 
and  a  little  to  the  left  of  the  conglomerate  boulder 
the  site  of  Forty  Fort  Church.  There  is  no  death  hour 
to  memory;  it  lives  to  the  last  heart-beat;  sometimes 
it  slumbers  heavily  through  the  storm  of  passing  events ; 
again,  it  wakens  by  the  merest  breath — the  scent  of  a 
flower.  Always,  always  young,  as  we  have  made  it, 
changeless,  a  real  presence  to  gladden  or  sadden  remain- 
ing days. 

On  the  very  spot  where  he  stood  many  times,  in  pio- 
neer days,  Indians  watched  the  early  settler  build  his 
fort.  And  as  searchingly  as  eagle  eye  ever  sought  the 
white  man's  lodge,  Eichard  Allan  sought  the  abode  of 
his  beloved,  a  dot  of  white  in  all  that  wilderness. 

Then,  with  the  naked  eye,  he  regarded  the  heavens. 
Long  strips  of  gray,  floating  into  the  east,  sent  hints 
of  amethystine  umbrage  that  discouraged  the  prophesy  of 
the  early  hours. 

"I  must  be  off,"  he  mused,  "out  of  the  hills  before 
the  storm.  Alas,"  putting  the  glasses  into  the  case  and 
swinging  the  strap  over  his  shoulder,  "that  dream  hours 
should  be  so  brief." 

The  moments  sped  like  eagles  to  their  mountain-hilled 

•  by  mountain-nests,  and  presently,  lengthening  shadows 

fell  aslant  the  river's  bank,  and  dappled  amber,  resting 

upon  the  topmost  peak,  caught  with  faint  reflection  the 

gathering  clouds. 

He  turned  to  his  horse,  tied  to  a  tree  near  the  tangled 
path,  mounted,  and  rode  away  through  a  gloom  of 
leaves. 

Just  before  the  broad  road  at  the  mountain's  base  is 


174  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

reached  an  opening  to  the  river  lends  an  enchanting  view 
of  hill  and  dale.  He  drew  rein ;  he  might  never  chance 
that  way  again,  and  this  was  his  day  of  memories.  But, 
as  he  was  adjusting  the  field-glass,  a  shout  of  boisterous 
laughter  came  from  the  Valley  road.  The  laughter 
jarred.  The  times  were  uncertain,  threatening,  though 
no  dark  or  murderous  deed  had  been  committed.  Owing 
to  the  strike  situation,  a  sort  of  menacing  attitude  filled 
the  Valley.  Rumor  had  also  got  abroad  that  trouble 
was  .hatching  between  the  owner  of  a  big  mine  and  a 
certain  gang  who  had  taken  upon  themselves  things  not 
countenanced  by  the  union.  A  gentleman  driving  with 
his  little  son  had  been  held  up  the  evening  before,  and 
Allan  fancied  he  was  upon  the  perpetrators  of  the  deed. 
Securing  his  horse,  he  stealthily  crept  to  the  opening, 
which  was  some  yards  away.  Nearing  the  edge,  he  dis- 
tinctly heard  the  name  Dale,  followed  by  a  harsh  laugh 
and  imprecation.  He  went  down  upon  his  knees,  crawled 
to  the  extreme  verge  of  the  incline,  and  peeped  over. 

In  a  sort  of  recess  thirty  feet  below,  formed  by  the 
trunks  of  three  great  trees  that  grew  by  the  roadside, 
four  swarthy-looking  fellows  huddled  together,  a  dark 
bottle,  a  hunk  of  cheese  and  a  generous  loaf  between 
them. 

The  spokesman's  hand  was  upon  the  bottle.  He 
mumbled,  but  the  words  were  inaudible.  The  bottle 
went  round,  and  the  gang  was  growing  hilarious,  when 
a  rattling  sound  attracted  the  attention  of  the  fellow 
with  the  big  laugh.  He  cocked  his  ear,  nodding  satis- 
fyingly  to  the  others,  who  immediately  crouched. 

Trouble  was  at  hand.  Allan  slipped  the  pistol  from 
his  hip-pocket  and  prepared  for  action.  He  had  the 
advantage  of  the  rascals,  and  he  felt  thankful  in  his 
heart,  for  the  sake  of  the  unsuspecting  traveler.  Pres- 


ently  the  clatter  of  wheels  grew  distinctly  harsh,  and  a 
gypsy  caravan  turned  the  bend. 

"Git  up — hey-ho!"  called  the  driver  of  the  caravan 
to  the  gaunt  old  gray,  that  sniffed  audibly  as  he  strug- 
gled along  with  the  heavy  burden.  A  baby  face  peeped 
from  under  the  side  curtain,  and  a  lad  of  ten,  wearing 
a  battered  straw  hat  and  a  tattered  green  jacket,  holding 
with  one  hand  to  the  driver,  switched  vigorously  with 
the  other  the  flanks  of  the  weary  animal. 

They  passed,  and  the  fellow  with  the  big  laugh  rolled 
upon  the  ground  in  an  attitude  of  disgust 

"We  no  git  'm,  we  no  git  'm." 

"Oh,  shut!"  growled  the  spokesman,  who  was  not  a 
foreigner.  "We  will  git  him — you  just  wait;  our  party 
is  on  the  way." 

He  drew  thirstily  from  the  bottle,  steadying  himself; 
then  passed  it  on. 

Evidently  the  four  men  were  desperadoes  of  the  worst 
type.  Allan  drew  his  head  back  from  the  brink,  care- 
fully turning  the  situation  over  in  his  mind. 

If  he  returned  to  the  fork  he  could  take  the  short 
cut  to  the  main  road,  reach  the  official's  house,  get 
assistance,  and  return  and  capture  the  fellows.  The 
person  for  whom  they  waited  might  not  come  along 
so  soon.  But  his  reverie  was  cut  short  by  the  spokes- 
man's voice.  Allan  crawled  back  to  the  edge  cautiously; 
the  slightest  sound,  the  snapping  of  a  twig,  might  be 
his  undoing. 

A  soft  brush  fringed  the  edge  of  the  incline,  and  he 
had  only  to  bend  his  head  a  trifle  to  see  all  that  was 
taking  place  below,  the  brush  forming  a  kind  of  bulwark 
for  his  protection. 

"You  mine,  boys!" 

The  group  was  attention. 


176  OUE  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"There'll  be  a  rush  at  Dales.  We'll  make  his  picnic 
hot  as  he's  made  ourn." 

Allan  leaned  over  the  edge;  he  could  not  afford  to 
lose  a  word. 

The  little  man  grunted,  and  the  fellow  with  the  laugh 
echoed  the  leader's  sentiments  with  a  curse.  The  other 
swarthy  individual  tipped  the  bottle,  which  elicited  a 
savage  outburst  from  the  leader,  who,  with  an  ugly  im- 
precation, snatched  it  from  his  mouth,  held  it  an  instant 
to  the  light,  sneered  contemptuously,  turned  it  upside 
down,  and,  disgusted  that  it  had  been  so  completely 
drained,  tossed  it  into  the  bushes. 

A  big  laugh  applauded  the  act,  and  straightway  the 
swarthy  individual  slunk  to  his  vantage  ground — which 
happened  to  be  the  furthest  off  of  the  group  of  trees — 
and  at  once  ripped  out  of  his  brown  jeans  pocket  a  dan- 
gerous looking  knife. 

Allan  shivered,  thinking  of  his  friends  and  the  hor- 
ror that  might  be  hatching  in  the  brains  of  the  gang. 

Guests  were  always  coming  and  going  at  the  Camp, 
and  he  knew  that  the  drive  to  Mount  Lookout  was  a 
favorite  one.  What  if  Maithele — a  party  from 
Dale's ? 

His  brain  whirled. 

He  glanced  carefully  about  him,  then  up  to  the  sky, 
gathering  ominous  clouds.  His  animal  was  growing 
restless,  and  the  pawing  of  the  dead  leaves  disturbed 
the  silence.  Should  the  men  below  catch  the  sound  his 
chance  of  rendering  assistance  to  those  whom  he  loved 
might  be  futile.  He  crept  back  to  the  horse. 

"Good  boy,"  he  whispered,  "good  boy,"  casting  about 
for  an  edible,  which  did  not  come  within  his  reach. 
The  ground  was  stubby,  tender  blades  of  grass  having 
long  since  shriveled  in  the  eagerly-early  frosts.  Gath- 


THE    ASSAULT    IN    THE    HILLS      177 

firing  a  small  whisp  of  copper-gold  hay,  he  fed  the  grate- 
ful creature. 

"I  haven't  had  a  bite  myself,"  he  said  understand- 
ingly,  "since  early  morning,  and  I  may  not " 

He  paused  abruptly,  hearing  the  distant  canter  of  a 
horse.  The  intense  silence  of  the  hills,  the  hard,  dry 
bed  of  the  road  made  audible  the  slightest  sound.  In 
a  flash  he  had  whisked  about,  heedless  in  his  wild  ex- 
citement of  the  noise  of  dead  leaves  crunching  beneath, 
his  feet. 

The  rotten  branch  of  a  tree  hung  near  the  edge;  re* 
gardless  of  the  act,  his  hand  fell  upon  it.  It  snapped — 
instantly  he  jumped  backward. 

But  the  men  below  did  not  hear,  so  hurriedly  were 
they  preparing  for  the  assault.  Allan  bent  forward 
again,  but  this  time  with  caution. 

"Whist — whist!"  hissed  the  leader,  leveling  his 
weapon. 

Allan  dropped  upon  one  knee,  covering  the  man.  The 
swarthy  fellow  had  a  knife,  the  other  two  pistols — like- 
wise the  leader,  who  spoke  again : 

"Whist,  boys !    He's  coming." 

But  the  cantering  ceased,  and  the  leader  scowled. 

"Hell!" 

He  twisted  his  head  around;  the  road  was  clear;  he 
could  see  the  bend. 

"Damnation !  If  he  has  turned  back  I'll  drop  a  bead 
on  you,"  covering  the  swarthy  fellow. 

The  others  laughed,  and  one  ventured  into  the  road, 
but  turned  instantly.  A  horse  was  slowly  advancing, 
bearing  an  ebon  rider.  Allan's  heart  stood  still.  From 
his  elevated  position  he  had  a  better  view  than  the  fel- 
low below.  While  he  gazed  the  dark  mount  drew  rein, 
wheeling  the  animal  about.  It  was  Ben. 


178  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Heavenly  Father/'  ejaculated  Allan,  "my  dear  Mai- 
thele  is  safe  at  home !'' 

Ben  doffed  his  hat  as  a  fine  horse  approached  seating 
an  elderly  gentleman  of  soldierly  mien  whose  figure 
seemed  familiar.  The  gentleman's  hat,  being  pulled 
over  his  brow,  defied  recognition.  But  Allan  had  little 
time  for  conjecture. 

"Ready!"  called  the  leader  of  the  gang;  and  Allan's 
finger  fell  upon  the  trigger  of  his  pistol  covering  the 
leader,  his  eyes  sharply  traveling  to  the  other  three. 

The  game  was  simple. 

The  gentleman  was  the  leader's  mark,  Ben  the  big 
man's ;  the  swarthy  fellow  was  to  watch ;  and  the  fourth 
ruffian,  who  stood  back  of  the  gang,  was  evidently  pre- 
pared to  correct  the  misspent  ball. 

Ben  lagged  a  trifle  behind  the  gentleman,  with  the 
server's  etiquette. 

Crouching  for  an  advantage,  the  leader  shouted : 

"Fire!" 

Three  sounds  rent  the  air  simultaneously.  Two  bullets 
were  spent,  and  the  third,  Allan's,  missed  the  villain's 
heart,  owing  to  the  crouching  movement.  The  leader's 
right  hand  fell  limp.  He  turned  with  an  oath  to  one 
of  his  men,  whom  he  thought  guilty.  Pandemonium 
reigned.  The  horses  reared  and  plunged.  Another  re- 
port! The  gentleman  slashed  right  and  left,  but  the 
swarthy  brigand  had  the  bridle  of  his  horse. 

Allan  ran  several  feet,  caught  to  a  stout  bough  hang- 
ing over  the  edge,  and  swung  himself  to  the  ground. 
Lighting  upon  his  feet  without  a  scratch,  he  made  di- 
rectly for  the  leader's  assistant.  His  unexpected  appear- 
ance unnerved  the  Italians,  who  could  not  imagine 
whence  he  came.  But  the  leader,  who  was  taking  in 
the  situation,  grasped  his  pistol  in  his  left  hand  and 


THE    ASSAULT    IX    THE    HILLS      179 

made  a  dash  for  Allan — whose  hour  had  surely  arrived 
had  not  Lady  Dee,  in  a  wild  effort  to  escape  from  the 
fire,  bolted  in  between  the  two  ruffians,  giving  Allan  the 
advantage. 

Ben  had  no  weapon  save  the  basket  of  eggs  swinging' 
upon  his  arm.  Having  espied  Allan,  his  courage  lifted, 
and  he  hurled  the  basket  of  eggs  straight  at  the  leader, 
who,  staggering  under  the  splash  of  white  shell,  nearly 
met  a  horrible  end  from  the  hoofs  of  the  mare. 

Again  two  reports  rang  out,  and  Allan  saw  his  man 
totter.  Immediately  he  made  his  way  to  the  gentleman, 
who  had  sprung  from  his  horse  as  the  swarthy  fellow's 
knife  entered  the  animal's  throat;  and  Allan 
flung  himself  between  the  two  as  the  Italian's 
bloody  knife  was  about  to  make  a  lunge.  He  grasped 
the  knife  with  his  left  hand  and  caught  the  fellow  by 
the  nape  of  the  neck  with  the  right.  Lifting  him  upon 
his  feet,  he  shook  him  as  a  dog  shakes  a  rat.  Then  he 
hurled  him  off  with  a  force  that  might  have  broken  an 
ordinary  man's  bones;  but  the  Italian  was  slight  and 
wiry  and  undersized.  He  barely  touched  the  ground  be- 
fore he  was  upon  his  feet  again — but  at  a  frightful  dis- 
advantage. Allan  sneered  contemptuously. 

"If,"  he  spoke  quickly,  with  chest  heaving  and  eyes 
afire,  "if  I  cared  to  soil  my  hands  with  a  dog's  blood, 
I'd  send  your  miserable  carcass " 

The  fellow  fled,  and  Allan  turned  to  the  gentleman, 
who  had  got  upon  his  feet,  white  and  terribly  worsted, 
holding  his  right  arm  with  his  left  hand. 

"Mr.  Lansing!" 

But  the  next  moment  both  men  were  flying  to  the 
rescue  of  Ben.  As  they  ran,  a  distance  of  ten  yards,  a 
flash  and  the  whiz  of  a  bullet  passed  Allan's  ear.  The 
ruffians  were  flying  before  them,  the  big  man  with  the 


180  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

laugh  running  briskly,  the  limp  body  of  the  little  man 
swung  over  his  shoulder. 

The  parting  shot,  intended  for  Allan,  entered  the 
faithful  servant's  side.  Allan  caught  Ben  in  his  arms, 
and  very  gently,  with  Lansing's  assistance,  laid  him 
upon  the  ground.  The  mare  stood  perfectly  still  with 
intelligent  pose,  yet  quivering  in  every  limb. 

Allan  started  in  pursuit. 

He  was  too  late !  The  ground  had  surely  opened  and 
swallowed  the  gang.  Yet  he  searched  diligently.  Mn- 
ally  abandoning  his  determination  of  pursuit,  he  fired 
two  shots  in  the  direction  of  the  fugitives  to  convince 
them  that  he  had  ammunition  to  spare.  He  returned 
to  Mr.  Lansing  and  Ben. 

Down  upon  his  knees  he  went,  loosening  Ben's  shirt, 
dreading  yet  feeling  the  necessity  of  finding  the  wound. 

"She  knows,"  said  Allan  to  Lansing;  and  Lady  Dee, 
conscious  that  the  remark  referred  to  herself,  whinnied, 
her  eyes  directly  upon  Ben. 

" Thank  Gawd — Mister — All-an — boss." 

His  eyes  closed. 

"Are  you  badly  hurt,  Ben?" 

"'Tain't  much — jes'  a  scratch." 

"There  is  a  place  about  a  mile  beyond." 

"I  hardly  think,  Allan,  I  could  reach  it;  my  horse 
is  finished,"  said  Lansing. 

Allan  looked  up  searchingly. 

"What!    Not  hurt,  man?" 

Lansing's  left  hand  fell  upon  Allan's  shoulder. 

"I  would  have  been  a  corpse  but  for  you.  I  owe  you 
my  life." 

"Don't  mention  it — glad  I  happened  along.  But" — 
looking  full  upon  the  other — "that  infernal  scamp 
didn't ?" 


THE    ASSAULT    IN    THE    HILLS      181 

"I  guess  he  did — stuck  his  knife,"  pointing  to  the 
arm,  "as  he  tripped  me.  That  arm  was  gone  just  as 
you  came  up.  And,"  looking  intently  at  Allan,  "where 
in  the  name  of  Providence  did  you  come  from?" 

Allan's  glance  shot  upward. 

"I  have  a  horse  up  there;  but,  see,  we  must  be  off. 
Those  fellows  won't  return,  but  we  cannot  be  too  sure. 
Can  you  mount  Lady  Dee  ?" 

"I'll  try." 

But  the  effort  proved  too  much.  Allan  mounted,  and 
Lady  Dee  pointed  her  ears,  picking  steps  in  briery  places, 
taking  the  big  rocks  in  leaps,  and  passing  the  under- 
growth in  long  strides. 

And  then  they  were  in  the  road. 

"Now,  my  beauty,  now!" 

And  she  sprang  forward  with  a  litheness  that  proved 
her  sire  king  of  the  steeplechase. 

The  spot  just  above  the  scene  of  the  assault  was  gained 
in  less  time  than  Allan  had  calculated,  and  as  he  drew 
rein  astonishment  and  annoyance  grew.  Had  he  taken 
the  wrong  cut?  Alighting,  he  led  the  mare  to  the  cliff 
and  peered  over.  He  had  not — there  they  were — Ben  on 
the  flat  of  his  back  and  Lansing  keeping  guard.  He 
called  softly: 

"All  right?" 

Lansing  looked  up,  nodding. 

"I'm  coming  back;  but  say,  don't  get  lonesome — I 
have  to  go  the  other  way  to  return." 

Lansing's  brows  knitted,  but  he  did  not  speak. 

Allan's  horse  was  gone,  and  he  explained  to  himself 
that  the  animal  might  have  broken  away,  alarmed  by 
the  shooting.  If  the  rascals  had  him,  then  welcome,  for, 
in  such  event,  they  would  be  far  away  with  the  prize. 


182  OUE  BIGHT  TO  LOVE 

And  perhaps,  for  so  it  proved — the  animal  was  never 
discovered. 

"  Now,  Lady  Dee,  my  beauty,  we  will  go  up  the  moun- 
tain to  the  fork,  take  a  short  cut,  and  make  a  dash  for 
the  little  brown  house  where  I  stopped  this  morning. 
Not  so  fast;  wait  until  we  get  to  the  road." 

Lady  Dee  pricked  her  ears  and  snorted. 

"Now,  my  beauty,"  leaning  forward  to  pat  her  neck, 
"your  best,  your  very  best,  for  the  love  of  Maithele !" 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

HOPE  REJUVENATES  ALLAN'S  HEART. 

THRICE  the  rider  sounded  the  halloo,  and  the  young 
son  of  the  house  came  dashing  down  to  the  gate.  Recog- 
nizing Allan,  the  master  followed  with  quickening  pace, 
calling  to  his  son : 

"Lead  the  mare  around  to  the  stable!" 

But  Allan  explained  the  situation. 

"Has  it  come  to  this?"  said  the  gentleman.  "The 
difficulty  will  be  to  get  the  wounded  man  home." 

A  bewildered  shade  crossed  his  countenance,  but  it 
was  almost  instantly  dissipated. 

"I  have  it,"  bringing  his  hands  forcibly  together. 
"  You  go  inside ;  daughter  will  give  you  a  bite,  and " 

"No,  no,  thank  you;  I  can't  lose  a  second." 

And  so  they  hurried  to  the  stable,  and  in  an  incredibly 
short  time  were  at  the  gate  again.  As  the  daughter 
threw  two  big  blankets  into  the  wagon  the  boy  came 
running  down  the  path.  He  begged  to  accompany  them, 
and  the  father,  turning  to  refuse,  encountered  a  youth- 
ful soldier,  with  gun  planted  and  hand  saluting. 

The  boy  jumped  into  the  wagon  and  the  daughter 
handed  over  a  small  basket, 

"The  all-important,"  she  said. 

The  owner  of  the  wagon  handled  the  reins,  and  was 
free  with  the  whip  as  he  plied  Allan  with  questions; 
and  at  intervals  the  boy  would  strike  in: 

183. 


184 

"Gee  whiz!     I  wish  I'd  been  'round." 

"Yes,  you  do !  Well,  son,"  slightly  changing  his  man- 
ner, "things  are  getting  pretty  rough,  and  you  may 
get  a  taste  of  the  strike  before  we  move  to  town. 

Allan  objected. 

"I  hardly  think  the  union  responsible  for  to-day's 
affair." 

"You  on  that  side?" 

"I'm  opposed  to  unions,  but  don't  beat  the  devil 
around  the  stump.  The  laborer  is  entitled  to " 

"The  stump?"  cut  in  the  official. 

"Where  is  the  devil's  stump?"  chipped  in  the  boy. 
The  father  laughed  : 

"Behind  the  -anthracite  hills." 

"I  mean,"  said  Allan,  "that  every  fracas  in  the  hills 
should  not  be  laid  at  the  door  of  the  union  fellows." 

And  Sampson  kept  pace  with  his  docked  companion, 
notwithstanding  the  companion's  frivolous  conduct. 
Sampson  was  wise,  having  gained  experience  in  a  rather 
hard  school.  He  had  not  nibbled  blue  grass  in  the  first 
days  of  his  weaning ;  he  had  made  out  with  old  stubble. 
Nor  had  he  been  broken  in  by  a  beautiful  girl  with  wild, 
flying  hair.  He  had  acquired  his  learning  from  a  booted 
young  farmer  who  handled  a  birch  stick  in  lieu  of  a 
crop;  he  had  not  been  housed  in  a  brownstone  stable — 
he  thought  himself  lucky  to  rest  in  a  barn.  Sampson 
was  trained;  Lady  Dee  was  in  training.  At  the  end  of 
the  first  half  mile  the  tripudiary  movement  of  the  well- 
bred  young  mare  nearly  unseated  the  mount,  who  lost 
a  point  about  unions  of  practical  worth. 

With  that  satisfaction  that  gloats  when  the  commoner 
discovers  the  slip  of  the  aristocrat,  Sampson  enjoyed  the 
lesson  in  deportment  the  mare  received. 

"We're  most  there!"     And  as  the  boy  spoke  they 


HOPE  REJUVENATES  ALLAN'S  HEART  185 

turned  the  bend.  Allan  dashed  ahead,  and  was  relieved 
to  find  Ben  and  Lansing  in  the  recess,  as  he  left  them. 

It  was  decided  to  make  for  the  nearest  dwelling,  al- 
though the  official  declared  the  distance  to  his  own  place 
not  greater;  but  Allan  was  anxious  to  be  near  town, 
a  physician  beirig  the  next  consideration.  Ben  was  care- 
fully lifted  into  the  wagon,  though  he  stoutly  protested, 
and  Mr.  Lansing  was  given  a  seat  beside  the  small  boy. 

They  had  proceeded  a  little  over  half  the  distance 
when  a  big  drop  of  rain  fell  from  a  black  cloud  upon 
the  official's  nose,  and  Allan  caught  one  upon  the 
brow.  Lansing  scowled,  glancing  upward,  and  mumbled 
an  imprecation  which  made  the  official  look  slightly 
askance.  But,  possibly  the  boy  knew  more  than  his  cate- 
chism, for,  presently  an  interesting  expression  played  on 
his  countenance  and  he  broke  into  a  shrill  whistle. 

Allan  had  fallen  back  with  his  own  thoughts,  permit- 
ting Lady  Dee  to  pick  her  steps  and  caper  in  a 
manner  delightful  to  herself.  A  second  drop,  another, 
still  another,  and  Allan  lifted  his  eyes  anxiously. 

The  road  was  clear  all  the  way,  and  every  little  while 
vistas  opened  through  gaps  in  the  hills.  Against  a 
background  of  purple  and  yellow  light  at  the  mouth  of 
a  conical  hollow — one  of  Nature's  great  emerald  tun- 
nels— his  vision  beheld  the  garden  of  his  dreams !  He 
could  distinguish  the  isle  of  Lechaw-Hanna,  like  a  green 
cradle  bound  about  with  a  silver  fillet,  that  curved,  flut- 
tered and  waved  with  the  breath  of  the  storm. 

The  wind  flapped  with  giant  wings  against  the  inner 
walls  of  the  conical  hollow,  and  crispy  brown  leaves 
flounced  gaily  into  the  open,  giddy  debutants  of  a  season 
ended.  Up,  up  they  whirled ;  down,  down  they  dropped 
to  fathomless  deeps.  And  the  voice  long  and  thin,  with 
the  death-screech  in  it,  and  the  pitiful  answer,  soft  and 


186  OUK  IUGHT  TO  LOVE 

low,  sighing  and  sobbing  its  one-word  melody,  "woo, 
woo,"  swept  over  the  mountains,  hung  in  the  valley  and 
died  upon  the  stream.  Century-old  trees  bowed  in  sol- 
emn obeisance;  and  raiment,  fine  raiment,  stripped  in 
a  twinkle  from  strong  branches,  was  caught  in 
mid-air,  whipped  into  atoms  and  hurled  to 
eternity.  The  whole  valley  was  bending  and 
swaying.  Again  a  drop — another,  still  another !  Not- 
withstanding the  anxiety  of  the  hour  and  the  tragedy 
of  the  day,  Allan  experienced  a  feeling  of  exhilaration 
in  behalf  of  his  own  cause.  Hope  rejuvenated  his  spirit 
— a  new  resolve  lifted  his  heart  with  strength  like  unto 
the  unseen  miracle  in  the  storm.  The  mural  marvel  of 
varied  greens,  by  singular  mutation  agitated  into  recip- 
rocal wonder,  and  the  whole  metamorphosed  into  bronze 
and  purple — the  tunnel  darkened,  obliterating  the  pic- 
ture at  its  terminus. 

"Bless  God!"  cried  Allan,  giving  Lady  Dee  her  head. 

"Bless  God !"  softly  echoed  in  the  storm,  and  mayhap, 
floated  beyond,  through  telepathic  force,  to  Maithele 
waiting  with  deep  anxiety  the  return  of  a  faithful 
servant. 

The  wagon  had  gone  considerably  ahead,  but  Allan 
was  soon  within  hail. 

"Hold  up  there!"  he  called,  but  the  wind  carried  his 
voice  in  the  opposite  direction.  Lady  Dee  was  swift; 
a  second  time  he  called,  and  with  satisfaction. 

Lansing  grumbled,  snapping  the  lid  of  his  watch. 

"If  you  could  manage  to  mount  the  mare  you  could 
get  to  the  farm-house  ahead,"  said  Allan. 

"Thank  you,  I  prefer  to  keep  by  this  boy's  gun.  You 
go  on  ahead  Allan — get  the  people  to  build  a  fire  and 
have  a  bed  ready.  I  am  played  out — played  out,"  he 
reiterated  sententiously. 


HOPE  REJUVENATES  ALLAN'S  HEART  187 

As  they  spoke  Allan  was  off,  and  before  he  reached 
the  house  the  rain  came  down  in  torrents. 

Valley  people  are  always  hospitable,  and  Lansing 
found  the  fire  waiting  and  a  nice,  clean  bed.  As  nat- 
urally as  though  he  had  just  entered  the  Waldorf- 
Astoria,  he  asked  for  a  cocktail.  The  good  man  stared. 
Cognac  would  answer;  the  good  man  grinned. 

"Where's  the  basket?"  said  the  boy. 

Allan  produced  it. 

"Sis  ain't  a  white  ribbon,"  said  the  boy,  diving  into 
it;  "and  this  here,"  producing  a  brown  bottle,  "ain't 
liniment." 

"God  bless  sister,"  was  Allan's  pious  annotation,  as, 
holding  a  glass  to  the  light,  he  measured  for  Ben  before 
handing  it  over  to  Lansing. 

When  the  house  was  quiet,  and  the  storm  passed, 
Allan  took  the  road  to  town,  not,  however,  without  in- 
numerable commissions  from  Lansing. 

A  half  hour  later  the  official  mounted  his  animal,  hav- 
ing concluded  to  leave  the  wagon  at  the  farm-house ;  and 
some  one  wrapped  a  shawl  about  the  boy's  shoulders  and 
lifted  him  up  behind  the  father. 

Allan's  run  to  town  was  rather  hazardous;  the  road 
was  dark  and  sloppy,  and  the  last  shower,  which  thor- 
oughly drenched  him,  overtook  him  when  about  half  a 
mile  from  the  house. 

Lady  Dee  plodded  on  uncertainly ;  she  had  proceeded 
two  miles  of  the  way  when,  halting  precipitously,  Allan 
grasped  his  pistol.  But  the  alarm  was  unnecessary.  A 
baby  lamb  came  to  an  untimely  end  by  getting  under 
the  animal's  hoofs.  It  had  wandered  from  the  fold, 
perhaps;  Allan  regretted  the  accident. 

"Shame,  shame,  Lady  Dee — what  will  your  mistress 
say  ?"  Yet  he  held  himself  wholly  to  blame, 


188  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"So  much  far  dreaming,"  he  went  on,  soliloquizing. 
"I  would  give  the  world  to  see  Maithele  to-night,  just 
for  a  minute,  Lady  Dee;  but  we  must  push  on  to  town. 
Ah,  Lady  Dee,"  still  soliloquizing,  "you  must  be  more 
careful  next  time;  think  of  that  little  white  ball,  so 
innocent,  so "  unsuspecting,  lying  there  in  the  road 
crushed  beyond  resemblance,  merely  because  I  dreamed, 
and  you " 

The  mare  shied. 

"Well,"  laughed  Allan,  "afraid  of  your  own  shadow?" 
And  they  sped  on,  on.  At  the  end  of  another  half  mile 
the  mare  came  to  a  sudden  halt. 

"Go  on,  my  beauty !" 

But  she  would  not  budge. 

"Oh-  ho !"  he  cried;  "I  behold  your  game !" 

He  remembered  the  short  cut  to  the  river  that  he  and 
Maithele  had  taken  one  twilight  hour  of  happy  memory. 
Lady  Dee  was  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  route, 
but  as  he  looked  toward  the  tempting  path  he  sighed. 

She  clawed  the  ground,  broadening  her  nostrils,  and 
nickered.  Allan  coaxed,  dug  at  her  ribs,  to  no  avail; 
and  presently  she  lifted  her  hind  hoofs  with  antics  per- 
suasively interesting,  and  straightly  Allan's  course  was 
decided. 

With  fine  satisfaction  she  turned  into  the  cut,  spring- 
ing nimbly  over  rock  and  avoiding  bad  places.  She  was 
familiar  with  the  path  and  Allan  resigned  himself  to 
the  inevitable. 

The  two  Rice  girls  from  Philadelphia  were  over  again, 
to  remain  until  after  the  ball ;  and  all  through  the  week 
guests  were  coming  and  going.  The  season  seemed 
rushed  toward  its  close.  Bonfires  glowed  in  the  evening, 
and  the  young  people  danced,  flirted,  or  engaged  in 
games.  Lawrence  was  neglecting  business — at  least, 


HOPE  EEJUVENATES  ALLAN'S  HEART  189 

three  runs  to  the  island  the  week,  not  including  Sundays, 
gave  the  impression.  And  he  constituted  himself  master 
of  ceremonies  over  at  Bachelor  Quarters;  Dorothy's 
dream  was  sweet  fulfilment. 

Not  so  Maithele.  The  days  hung  like  wet  leaves  at 
the  river's  edge;  people  disturbed  her,  and  the  incessant 
chatter  and  merrymaking  drove  her  to  the  depth  of 
loneliness. 

And  with  sympathetic  appreciation  Dorothy  marked 
the  new  quality  in  the  cry  of  the  violin — a  singular, 
irresistible  pathos  in  the  fine  lifting  of  notes  and  a  pas- 
sionate quavering  of  dying  melodies.  Playing  accompani- 
ments, Dorothy  felt  herself  drifting  to  the  other's  mood, 
and  often  a  tender  mist  filled  her  eyes.  Then  came  the 
days  when  even  the  sympathetic  friend  lay  in  its  box 
neglected,  and  she  wandered  restlessly  about.  Yet  she 
could  dissemble ;  the  face  that  lifted  to  the  speaker  was 
always  bright. 

The  same  day  as  Eichard  Allan  reached  the  great 
apex  of  Mount  Lookout,  adjusting  the  field-glass  in  the 
direction  of  Lechaw-Hanna,  Maithele  was  seated  on  the 
long  bench  in  Hammock  Court,  listening  to  a  new  story 
that  Jack  Kuford  had  woven  from  mere  nothings.  It 
is  natural  to  exaggerate  favors  that  are  bestowed  through 
gentle  kindness.  And  Euford  rushed  to  the  brink  before 
she  could  save  him.  He  saw  the  precipice,  too;  the 
awful  declivity — yet  went  down  with  a  certainty. 

She  retired  to  her  own  room,  oversad  with  Euford's 
mistake,  and  wishing,  perhaps,  she  had  the  strength  or 
inclination  to  have  encouraged  him.  Seating  herself  at 
the  window,  she  anxiously  watched  the  ominous  sky. 

The  prophetic  intimations  of  early  noon  were  hasten- 
ing to  fulfilment;  long  whiffs  of  thin  air  mocked  with 
fine  derision  the  soft  lilt  of  the  Susquehanna;  tall  trees 


190  OUR  BIGHT  TO  LOVE 

bent  and  doubled,  and  a  wee,  brown  lyrist  perched  on  a 
limb  of  the  big  walnut  tree  in  Hammock  Court,  hearing 
his  own  voice  drop  to  falsetto,  flew  swiftly  to  his  winter 
apartment  in  the  big  chimney  of  the  left  wing  of  the 
Camp. 

She  shivered  perceptibly  as  a  great  drop — another, 
and  still  another  splashed  at  the  window  pane.  Anxiety 
for  Ben  deepened  as  the  darkness  fell  and  with  it,  the 
downpour  of  rain.  Eain !  How  it  came  down — as  if 
some  great  river  bodily  lifted  to  the  skies  had  suddenly 
upset  upon  the  land. 

At  last  it  ceased,  ceased  with  that  awful  stillness 
that  sends  Nature  to  loneliness. 

Presently  a  rain-bird  cawed ;  the  mate  answered.  The 
storm  was  over.  And  the  young  moon,  rising  complac- 
ently high,  dipped  on  the  edge  of  a  frosted  giant  plume. 
An  hour,  two  hours — it  seemed  like  the  end  of  night  to 
Maithele,  when  suddenly  a  full  voice  lifted,  filling  the 
stillness. 

"A-he-ee-ho!    A-he-ee-ho !" 

She  knew  the  familiar  tone,  but  could  not  place  it. 
She  rushed  down  the  steps  to  the  broad  veranda. 

"I  must  go,"  she  entreated  Lawrence.  "I  heard  the 
mare  whinny,  but — but  the  call  was  not  Ben's,"  she 
nearly  sobbed. 

"All  right,"  said  Lawrence,  who  was  doing  Dorothy's 
bidding ;  and  Pat,  swinging  the  lantern,  chipped  in : 

"Let  her  hev5  her  way,  sir.  She'll  hev*  it  whether 
or  no,  if  she  wants  it,  sir." 

And  down  they  went  to  the  ferry.  And  ere  it  touched 
the  opposite  shore  they  recognized  the  tall  figure  stand- 
ing on  the  bank  holding  to  the  mare. 

"Ben  with  you?"  called  Lawrence,  as  the  ferry  landed. 

No  response. 


HOPE  REJUVENATES  ALLAN'S  HEART  191 

Maithele  did  not  go  forward;  he  came  directly  to  her, 
taking  both  hands  in  his  own. 

"I  wanted  to  go  straight  to  town,"  was  the  apology. 

"Tell  me ";  but  her  voice  faltered,  and  she  turned 

her  eyes  upon  the  river  running  silver  ripples  against 
the  little  boat. 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  met  since  the  parting 
in  the  church. 

"Ben  was  not  able  to  come  on,"  he  answered. 

Lawrence  laid  his  hand  upon  Allan's  arm. 

"You  are  soaking  wet.  You  will  tell  us  about  Ben 
when " 

Allan's  gaze  was  fastened  upon  Maithele. 

"If  Miss  Burton  will  pardon  me,  I  will  speak  to  you 
aside." 

She  interrogated: 

"You  have  told  me  all?" 

"Not  all.  Ben  is  hurt — not  seriously,  I  hope — we 
will  pull  him  through." 

Allan  and  Lawrence  walked  up  the  bank. 

"I  cannot  see  her  suffer,"  were  Allan's  first  words. 
"I  would  not  have  ventured  here,  but  the  case  is  des- 
perate." 

When  the  story  of  the  assault  was  told,  and  they  were 
returning.  Lawrence  vouchsafed  to  pay  an  honest  score. 

"You  are  a  gentleman,  Richard  Allan,  but  I  did  not 
know  until  to-night  that  you  are  also  a  hero." 

The  other  smiled  feebly. 

"Don't  put  it  that  way." 

"Dorothy,"  continued  Lawrence,  "will  never  forgive 
me  if  you  do  not  cross  over;  why,  man,  you  are  wet 
through  and  through!" 

He  looked  his  friend  over  and  proceeded: 

"You  have  her  sympathy — she  will  be  glad  to  see  you; 


193  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

with  your  permission,,  I  told  her  all,  and  I  repeat,  you 
have  her  sympathy." 

But  Allan  was  decided. 

"I  have  clothes  at  the  hotel.  I  will  get  into  them, 
find  the  best  doctor  in  town  and  get  back  to  the  farm- 
house before  midnight." 

"That  settles  it;  I  am  with  you." 

"Good.  But  first  take  her  back — tell  the  news  to 
Dale,  and  hurry." 

Lawrence  gave  the  order,  and  the  ferry  pushed  out. 
The  man  on  the  bank  lifted  his  hat  without  a  word; 
and  Maithele,  one  arm  caressing  Lady  Dee,  turned  her 
face  to  him.  He  could  not  see  the  eyes  brimming  with 
tears. 

Allan  did  not  find  the  wait  long. 

Pat  had  done  what  he  called  " fire-engine  work."  The 
gray  came  over  with  the  yellow  phaeton,  in  which  some 
one  had  thrown  the  necessary  things,  and  Mr.  D'ale  ac- 
companied the  two  as  far  as  town.  His  business  was 
with  the  chief  of  police.  He  would  not  return  to  the 
island  that  night,  he  said.  There  were  men  enough 
there  to  protect  the  women. 

Lawrence  found  the  doctor;  and  Allan  was  waiting 
when  he  returned  to  the  hotel.  And,  with  a  crack  of 
the  whip,  the  grays  started  briskly  for  the  mountain 
road. 


CHAPTEE    XX. 

"l  HAVE  YOU  BOTH  IN  A  TRAP." 

BEFORE  mid-hour  the  following  day  the  four  men 
drove  off. 

Lansing's  injuries  were  slight;  but  he  looked  the  in- 
valid, received  all  possible  attention,  and  accepted  the 
doctor's  suggestion  to  remain  over  at  his  private  sana- 
torium in  town. 

It  was  otherwise  with  Ben.  The  doctor  probed,  found 
the  ball,  but  his  case  was  nearly  hopeless. 

Driving  townward,  the  conversation  turned  upon  the 
event  that  brought  about  Ben's  undoing. 

"Who  is  he?"  inquired  Lansing. 

"Ben  is  a  fine  specimen  of  the  dark  element  of  Ken- 
tucky soil.  His  history  is  interesting." 

And  Allan  related  as  much  of  it  as  he  deemed  neces- 
sary to  the  occasion. 

"I  called  to  him,"  said  Lansing,  when  Allan  came 
to  the  end;  "it  was  so  odd,  you  know,  to  see  a  black 
face  in  the  hills.  He  drew  rein  and  waited  for  me  to 
catch  up.  I  don't  suppose  those  scoundrels  would  have 
molested  him  had  he  gone  on  alone;  they  were  waiting 
for  me." 

"You  have  a  clue,  Mr.  Lansing?" 

Lansing  flushed,  stammered. 

"No,  no— only  I  don't  think  I  will  venture  again 
through  the  wilderness  without  a  guard." 

193 


194  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

No  one  vouchsafed  a  reply,  but  Allan  felt  confident 
that  the  highwaymen  were  thoroughly  cognizant  of 
Lansing's  coming — and  besides,  that  he  had  considerable 
money  on  his  person. 

Several  years  later  Allan  obtained  information  that 
explained  Lansing's  journey  in  the  hills.  It  developed 
that  much  of  the  gentleman's  wealth  had  been  acquired 
by  foreclosing  mortgages,  not  always  properly  recorded, 
making  extraordinary  loans,  the  anomalous  interest  pay- 
able and  not  extended  beyond  a  given  time.  The  means 
to  the  end,  always  niggardly,  often  required  Lansing's 
personal  supervision.  He  was  upon  an  errand  of  this 
kind  when  set  upon  by  the  gang,  who  did  not  scruple, 
perhaps,  to  get  even. 

Two  months  later  a  tall  fellow,  whom  Allan  identified 
as  the  leader,  was  given  a  life  sentence  for  a  similar 
charge.  The  fellow  claimed  friends  in  the  union,  but 
the  friends  stoutly  repudiated  him. 

Returning  to  New  York  several  days  later,  Mr.  Lans- 
ing at  once  telephoned  to  the  office  of  a  leading  journal, 
giving  a  graphic  and  stirring  account  of  the  assault, 
incidentally  mentioning  that  the  brave  rescuer  was  the 
affianced  of  his  niece.  This  was  the  thing  Allan 
hoped  to  avert,  and  as  he  boarded  the  train  at  his  own 
town  for  the  city  the  following  morning  he  fervently 
prayed  that  he  might,  through  money  and  influence, 
manage  to  keep  his  name  out  of  the  affair — at  all  events, 
at  least  so  far  as  the  connection  with  Clara  Lansing  was 
concerned. 

He  bought  a  paper,  and  just  as  he  proceeded  to  read 
his  attention  was  attracted  by  the  rustle  of  feminity. 
Directly  in  front  of  him  sat  a  young  woman  whom  he 
had  not  seen  in  months.  She  was  a  charming  person, 
bright  and  vivacious,  and  he  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 


I  HAVE  YOU  BOTH  IN  A  TRAP   195 

tion  of  her  smile,  which  invited  him  to  the  seat  beside 
herself.  So  the  run  to  the  city  was  passed  without  a 
second  glance  at  the  paper. 

Having  telegraphed  Miss  Lansing,  Allan  repaired  at 
once  to  the  residence. 

He  was  ushered  into  the  library,  a  cosy  nook  in  the 
east  wing  of  the  mansion. 

A  small  fire  burned  in  the  grate;  the  weather  was 
delightful  outside ;  the  fire  was  merely  to  impart  cheeri- 
ness,  but  he  found  the  room  oppressive  and  moved  over 
to  the  window.  He  was  disappointed  that  Mr.  Lansing 
was  not  at  home;  the  gentleman  had  called  a  hansom, 
he  was  informed,  and  gone  to  the  Street.  And  so  he 
amused  himself  arranging  his  ideas.  He  would  tell 
Clara  Lansing  the  plan  he  had  devised  to  avoid  noto- 
riety. Smiling  with  satisfaction,  he  ensconced  himself 
in  a  big  chair. 

At  least  he  had  a  card  worth  playing,  and  he  hoped 
to  play  it  with  admirable  skill. 

He  reviewed  the  whole  situation  while  he  waited — 
the  other  interviews  between  Clara  and  himself,  the 
parting  in  the  church  with  his  dear  Maithele,  the  tragedy 
in  the  hills  and  the  meeting  on  the  ferry. 

Then  his  mind  dwelt  upon  the  marvel  that  had  come 
to  him,  opening  the  way. 

Clara  Lansing  had  reminded  him  on  the  other  occa- 
sion of  his  debt  of  gratitude.  Indeed,  he  had  been  mind- 
ful of  it  long  after  the  debt  had  been  paid— his  magnani- 
mous spirit  esteemed  the  virtue  of  gratitude  eminently 
above  its  commercial  face;  he  did  not  consider  the  re- 
turn with  interest  equivalent  to'  a  full  erasure  of  the 
debt.  Sentiment  could  only  be  met  by  sentiment.  He 
felt  himself  acquitted,  having  saved  John  R.  Lansing's 
life  at  the  risk  of  his  own.  Had  not  Mr.  Lansing 


196  OUK  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

broadly  admitted  as  much?  The  act  had  canceled  the 
obligation. 

Allan  smiled  with  satisfaction — he  could  afford  to 
smile — and  his  heart  lifted  with  the  happiness  of  ap- 
proaching freedom  as  Clara  Lansing  appeared  in  the 
doorway.  Clara  Lansing  was  always  well  gowned;  but 
the  present  morning  effect,  with  its  slight  suggestion  of 
neglige,  and  the  jacqueminot  bud  in  the  candre  hair, 
rather  overshot  the  mark. 

Allan  observed,  with  the  swift  comment  of  passing 
reflection,  that  the  red  gown  was  an  off  shade  of  the 
flower,  as,  extending  his  hand  warmly,  he  inquired  after 
her  own  health.  Possibly  she  looked  for  a  more  ardent 
greeting,  for  his  next  interrogation — which  included 
solicitude  for  Mr.  Lansing — was  answered  with  a  toss 
of  the  head. 

He  found  her  a  comfortable  seat.  He  was  always 
courteous,  but  the  young  woman  declared  the  chair 
"stuffy"  and  immediately  changed  to  the  tete-a-tete, 
persuasively,  perhaps. 

Allan  miscalculated.  He  did  not  feel  entitled  to  the 
charge  of  heroism,  but  he  did  expect  the  one  thing  that 
seemed  farthest  from  her  thought — the  acknowledgment 
and  commendation  of  his  conduct  in  behalf  of  her 
uncle. 

Her  conversation  was  indifferent,  remote  from  the 
subject,  and  presently  it  flagged. 

"I  am  lazy,"  she  remarked  with  an  arch  smile;  "will 
you  join  me?" 

She  touched  the  tiny  button. 

"Tea  or  coffee?"  she  inquired  of  Allan. 

"Neither,  thank  you." 

"Sherry,"  to  the  person  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"You  need  not  have  troubled,"  spoke  Allan. 


I  HAVE  YOU  BOTH  IN  A  TEAP   197 

"You  will  at  least  care  to  be  sociable.  I  came  in  just 
before  the  'wee  sma'  hours/  and  haven't  had  a  bite  for 
the  longest  while.  Really,  I  had  just  dropped  into  a 
doze  when  your  telegram  came." 

He  was  staring  incomprehensively  as  she  hurried  on. 

"A  telegram  is  the  one  thing  that  demoralizes  this 
household.  Uncle  had  me  awakened."  She  paused  an 
instant,  putting  her  fingers  to  her  mouth  to  hide  drowsi- 
ness. "He  got  off  before  I  had  a  chance  to  scold." 

"I  am  sorry.  And  I  have  called  at  an  unseemly 
hour?" 

"No,  really;  but  my  humor  will  improve  when  I  get 
a  bite." 

A  dainty  repast  was  set  before  Clara  Lansing,  and 
upon  a  small  onyx  table  at  Allan's  right  the  butler  placed 
a  crystal  decanter  and  a  single  glass. 

Allan  altered  his  opinion,  filling  the  glass.  She  had 
been  away  from  home,  and  in  all  probability  had  not 
heard  of  the  assault  in  the  hills. 

As  she  carved  off  the  wing  of  a  plump  quail  he  lifted 
his  glass. 

"Your  health,  young  lady,  which  hardly  needs  a 
toast." 

A  blush  suffused  her  cheeks,  deepening  the  rouge  a 
trifle  as  he  questioned: 

"You  have  been  away  visiting?" 

"No." 

"In  the  city?" 

"No." 

"Supper?" 

"No." 

"Dance?" 

"Sure." 

Monosyllables  were  in  order. 


198  OUE  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

She  sipped  the  tea  with  a  gold  spoon. 

"I  don't  mind  if  you  smoke,"  putting  the  spoon  aside 
and  lifting  the  cup  to  her  lips. 

He  lighted  a  cigar. 

"I  hope  when  we're  married  you'll  not  care  to  break- 
fast earlier  than  ten." 

Allan  winced.  The  silliness  of  the  remark  did  not 
strike  him,  but  the  reference  to  the  occasion. 

"Twelve  is  my  lunch  hour ;  I  am  through  a  half  day's 
work  by  midday." 

"Oh,"  she  spuriously  ventured,  "you  have?  But  you 
will  make  concessions." 

She  looked  directly  at  him.  Not  for  the  first  time 
in  their  long  acquaintance  she  marked  the  strength  of 
Allan's  face,  the  masterful  cut  of  the  jaw  and  the  positive 
curve  of  the  upper  lip.  The  nose  was  a  prominent  fea- 
ture, well  shaped  and  strong;  and  the  high  brow  from 
which  the  hair  slightly  waved  left  the  temples  bare. 

He  was  sending  filmy  clouds  to  the  ceiling,  and  missed 
her  scrutiny. 

She  waited,  and  he,  regarding  the  weed,  lowered  it  to 
the  silver  ash  tray,  which  stood  near  his  glass.  Touch- 
ing off  the  ashes  and  disregarding  her  question,  he 
inquired : 

"You  were  at  a  dance  last  night?" 

"Yes;  never  enjoyed  myself  more." 

He  smiled,  making  conversation. 

"I  did  not  know  that  the  season  had  begun." 

"It  has  not;  quiet  affair." 

"I  am  glad  that  Mr.  Lansing  did  not  need  your 
services  ?" 

"You  refer  to  that  scratch  on  his  arm?  He  actually 
compelled  me  to  see  it !  I  should  hardly  give  up  a  dance 
for  a  trifle." 


I  HAVE  YOU  BOTH  IN  A  TRAP   199 

Allan  sent  a  last  cloud  to  the  ceiling. 

Plainly  she  meant  to  avoid  or  to  make  light  of  the 
occasion. 

"He  had  a  narrow  escape,"  ventured  Allan,  probing. 

"Oh,  he  is  always  having  something." 

Allan's  brows  contracted.  Lansing  evidently  had 
made  light  of  the  affair;  but  he  could  not  afford  to 
throw  to  the  winds  the  card  he  had  come  the  distance 
to  play. 

"Ben,  you  know,  is  in  bad  shape.    I  am  afraid ; 

"Yes,  uncle  told  me.  I  remember  him — an  officious 
black  fellow  that  girl  brought  up  here." 

"A  noble  soul  who  followed  Miss  Burton  east,"  he 
corrected. 

Again  the  head  tossed. 

Clara  Lansing  held  the  trump  card ;  she  would  make 
no  concessions. 

"I  simply  despise  Southern  women.  I  never  met 
one  who  didn't  go  slopping  around  with  one  of  her 
former  slaves." 

"Your  education  has  been  neglected;  your  language 
is  unbecoming." 

She  touched  the  button.  Neither  spoke  until  the  tray 
disappeared ;  then  she  rose,  walked  to  the  door,  closed  it. 

"Sha'n't  we  ever  be  through  with  the  disagreeable?" 
Her  voice  and  manner  were  suddenly  quiet. 

"  At  once,"  he  answered,  in  the  same  tone. 

Her  eyes  fell  upon  Allan  curiously,  searchingly,  with 
a  sort  of  mental  calculation. 

He  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar  and  laid  it  nicely 
upon  the  ash  tray,  moved  the  table  a  trifle,  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  meeting  Clara  Lansing's  gaze. 

"You  referred  on  a  previous  occasion  to  my  obliga- 
tion to  your  uncle." 


200  OUE  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"And  you  informed  me  the  obligation  had  been 
canceled." 

"Exactly.  I  felt  then,  as  I  feel  now:  An  obligation 
of  that  kind  may  be  canceled;  but  gratitude,  the  senti- 
ment, may  only  be  met  by  a  like  return." 

He  looked  kindly  upon  her  as  he  went  on : 

"Clara,  the  whole  debt  is  thoroughly  erased.  A  few 
days  ago  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  be  about  when 
needed.  I  saved  your  uncle's  life." 

Her  brows  contracted  and  the  mouth  drooped  at  the 
corners  contemptuously  as  she  responded : 

"And  proved  yourself  a  fool.  Why  didn't  you  let  the 
old  thing  die  ?  I  would  have  gotten  his  money,  and " 

Allan  threw  his  hands  forward  as  if  warding  off  a 
blow,  but  she  went  on,  beside  herself  with  rage: 

"And  perhaps  made  it  hot  for  you  and  that  silly  girl 
that — that  don't  know  how  to  do  anything  but  fiddle — 
and  that  only  half  well." 

Instantly  he  was  upon  his  feet,  disgust  depicted  in 
his  every  lineament. 

He  walked  over  to  the  window — looked  out  upon  the 
street.  Was  this  the  woman  he  had  known  for  years  ? 

He  had  never  loved  her;  he  had  tried  to  break  with 
her.  He  felt  that  her  former  execrable  conduct,  lacking 
in  womanly  principle  and  dignity,  was  in  a  measure  par- 
donable; but  the  present  apathy,  disregard,  the  bold 
unfeeling  he  could  not  conciliate.  Turning  sharply  from 
the  window,  a  firm  resolve  possessed  him. 

She  was  leaning  against  the  mantel — not  dejectedly, 
but  reflectively — a  cold  smile  upon  her  lips. 

"I  will  never,"  he  said,  "never  marry  a  woman  who 
could  express  herself  so  inhumanly  regarding  the  being 
to  whom  she  owes  everything." 


I  HAVE  YOU  BOTH  IN  A  TRAP       201 

She  laughed,  and,  the  sound  jarring,  he  added,  de- 
liberately : 

"Miss  Lansing,  our  engagement  is  off." 

The  laughter  ceased,  and  he  repeated: 

"Understand,  please,  the  engagement  is  off." 

"Richard  Allan,  I  owe  my  uncle  nothing.  He  se- 
lected me  from  the  lot" — referring  to  her  sisters — "be- 
cause I  suited  him.  I  did  not  specially  care  to  be  se- 
lected. As  to  the  engagement,  I  regret  to  tell  you " 

She  smiled  sententiously. 

"If  the  cards  are  out,  it  makes  no  difference;  I 
say " 

"Don't  say  anything,  please,"  touching  the  button, 
"until  you  learn  why  I  cannot  oblige  you." 

To  the  attendant  she  gave  an  order. 

As  Allan  paced  up  and  down  the  room  he  heard  the 
passing  of  feet  above,  the  opening  and  closing  of  a  door. 

Then  Clara  Lansing  had  the  paper. 

"I  do  not  care  to  see  it,"  he  said. 

But  she  held  it  to  the  light  and  read,  in  a  disturbing 
tone: 

"Assault  on  John  R.  Lansing  in  the  Pennsylvania 
hills.  Mr.  Richard  Allan,  betrothed  of  Miss  Clara 
Lansing,  to  the  rescue." 

Allan  winced. 

"Even  so,  I  will  have  a  correction  in  every  paper  in 
town  by  evening." 

She  laughed. 

"What  could  you  say?" 

He  made  no  response,  and  she  proceeded :  "It  is  rather 
interesting,  as  such  things  go.  I  will  read  it." 

He  moved  over  to  the  door,  his  hand  upon  the  knob. 
He  was  determined  not  to  hear.  She  laughed  again, 
throwing  the  paper  aside.  Her  card  was  not  yet  played. 


202  OUB  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"You  will  keep  your  engagement  with  me.  If  you 
think  for  a  moment  I  care  for  you,  you  are  mistaken ;  I 
hate  you !  I  have  hated  you  since — since  I  saw  that  girl." 

She  was  standing  before  him,  too  florid,  perhaps,  for 
candre  hair.  And  the  rose,  having  lost  its  balance,  lay 
crushed,  annihilated  beneath  her  own  slipper. 

"I  am  not  thinking  of  you,"  she  continued,  "but  of 
myself.  I  shall  not  loom  up  in  the  world's  eyes  as  a 
jilted  one." 

"I  will  save  you  from  that," 

"You!"  she  echoed  with  scorn.  "I  have  my  opinion 
of  what  you  would  do  in  my  behalf.  Anyway,  your 
favors  come  too  late;  the  cards  are  out." 

"By  what  authority,  please?  I  protest.  I  shall  appeal 
to  Mr.  Lansing." 

She  came  very  near,  almost  hissing  into  his  ear : 

"  Make  the  best  of  it.  What  is  marriage,  anyway,  but 
a  silly  ceremony?" 

His  voice  had  a  commanding  ring  as  he  sent  forth : 

"Drop  the  subject.  You  have  no  regard  for  anything, 
it  seems.  I  will  wait  Mr.  Lansing's  return." 

"If  you  dare!"  with  menacing  voice  and  attitude, 
"I  will  appeal  in  my  own  behalf." 

"I  am  perfectly  willing  that  you  should,"  lie  said, 
more  kindly. 

"Are  you?" 

Her  fingers  clinched.  The  trump  card  was  flung  upon 
the  board. 

"If  you  dare,  Eichard  Allan;  if  you  dare,  mark  me! 
I  will  tell  him  that " 

"Tell  him  what  you  please." 

"That "  She  leaned  forward  and  whispered  into 

his  ear. 

Allan  turned  white  to  the  lips. 


I  HAVE  YOU  BOTH  IN  A  TRAP   203 

"You  are  mad — mad — go  to  your  room,  girl;  your 
brain  is  deranged !" 

"I  will  say  it,"  she  repeated,  "and  my  uncle  will 
kill  you.  I  will  swear  that  it  is  true." 

She  laughed  hysterically  and  struck  out  in  a  higher 
key: 

"I  will  have  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  you  suffer." 

Allan  flung  himself  into  a  chair,  snapped  his  fingers 
lightly.  But  almost  instantly  he  was  upon  his  feet,  again 
facing  her. 

"Bah!  You  would  not  be  guilty  of  such  a  falsehood 
— anything  so  base,  so  degrading." 

"I  will  tell  him."  She  decided  firmly  and  without 
a  blush. 

Allan  hesitated  before  responding. 

"If  that  is  your  style  I  will  permit  you  to  proceed. 
I  would  sooner  get  the  bullet  than  be  forced  into  a  mar- 
riage with " 

Allan  was  a  gentleman. 

"I  understand,"  she  smiled,  filling  in  the  gap.  "You 
have  other  plans;  but  you  will  keep  your  engagement 
with  myself."  She  arched  her  brows,  and  her  words 
fell  contemptuously:  "Your  movements  will  be 
watched." 

"Beware,  young  lady;  you  are  carrying  your  game 

too  far." 

She  passed  the  interruption. 

"If  you  run  abroad,  for  example?" 

His  gaze  shot  keenly  in  the  direction  of  the  desperate 
woman. 

"You  will  sue  me  for  breach  of  promise?"  he  ven- 
tured, a  joyous  thought  filling  his  mind.  But  with 
her  first  word  hope  died. 

"Not  much." 


204  OUE  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"What  then?" 

"I  will  kill  or  defame  that  girl." 

Allan  glowered. 

"  You  could  not  find  a  charge  against  her,  and  I  warn 
you " 

"I  could  not?" 

Clara  Lansing  laughed — laughed.  Presently,  leaning 
forward : 

"I  have  you  both  in  a  trap.  "Why  did  she  remain 
behind  at  that  lonely  old  church  of  Forty  Fort,  and 
why  were  you  hiding  at  the  side  of  the  church  until  the 
party  had  gone  ?  I  can  prove  you  were  alone  with  her  in 
the  church  over  an  hour  I" 

Allan  was  a  strong  man,  mentally,  morally  and  physi- 
cally ;  but  he  shrunk  visibly  as  he  answered : 

"That  does  not  concern  you,  and  please  be  careful." 

"It  does  and  shall  concern  me,  and  you  be  careful." 

"Bah !". 

Allan  turned  to  the  window  that  she  might  not  see 
the  effect  of  her  words.  But  she  knew — dropping  easily 
into  a  chair  to  await  his  next  move. 

Had  his  heart  been  in  condition  for  prayer,  he  might 
undoubtedly  have  prayed  heaven  to  spare  him  another 
sight  of  Clara  Lansing's  face;  but  he  was  stunned  al- 
most leaden  with  the  perfidy  of  the  woman  be- 
fore him.  He  did  not  doubt  that  she  would  act.  The 
direct  blow  that  threatened  Maithele's  life  had  not 
seemed  so  horrible  as  the  opprobrious,  roundabout 
aspersion.  He  did  not  have  to  rack  his  brain  to  locate 
the  informant.  He  remembered  the  creak  of  the  church 
door,  the  red  jacket  and  the  flying  horse.  In  justice 
to  Miss  Rice,  he  did  not  charge  her  gossiping  with 
calumny  intended,  but  her  mischievous  prattle  had  pro- 


I  HAVE  YOU  BOTH  IN  A  TRAP   205 

duced  a  dangerous  weapon  that  Clara  Lansing  might 
use  as  a  charge  of  crime. 

All  at  once  he  felt  an  overwhelming  sense  of  duty  to 
the  young  girl  whose  life  and  honor  were  in  jeopardy  be- 
cause of  himself,  and  he  determined  to  save  her — cost 
what  it  might.  He  had  arrived  at  this  conclusion  as  a 
hansom  approached,  and  several  moments  later  he  heard 
the  click  of  the  entrance  door ;  another  moment  and  Lan- 
sing was  in  the  library. 

Without  noticing  his  niece,  Lansing  threw  a  bundle  of 
papers  upon  the  writing  table. 

"Mr.  Lansing!" 

"Why,  mighty,  mighty  glad,"  shaking  Allan's  hand. 
"Just  the  man  I'm  looking  for ;  want  to  show  you  some- 
thing, it  is  in  the  latest  edition,  just  out."  As  he  spoke 
he  turned  the  leaves  of  the  paper. 

"But  I  have  an  engagement,  I  am  hurrying  off." 

Lansing  objected. 

"But  you  must  remain  Allan." 

"Mr.  Lansing,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask,"  hesitatingly. 

"Favor?  Now,  you  just  ask  the  big  one  of  me;  I'll 
grant  it.  Fire  away !" 

He  hesitated — lost!  Possibly  had  he  struck  boldly 
ahead,  defied  the  woman,  disregarded  her  threats,  he 
might  have  won,  but  the  thought  of  Maithele !  One  word 
might  be  enough  for  the  woman  who  stood  between  him- 
self and  Lansing,  like  a  lioness  ready  for  the  awful 
lunge.  He  could  only  crawl  to  his  point  and  observe  her 
attitude. 

"It's  about  this  affair— between  Miss  Lansing  and  my- 
self—  I  appeal  to  you  as  a  gentleman " 

Her  hand  fell  heavily  upon  his  arm. 

"I  also  appeal  to  you,"  she  said  firmly. 


206  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

Lansing  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  fear,  doubt, 
silencing  his  tongue. 

And  Allan  instantly  decided  his  loss — sacrifice — self- 
renunciation  for  the  honor  of  the  girl  he  loved. 

"We  have  quarreled,"  he  said,  "over  the  wedding 
cards." 

Lansing  sighed  his  relief.  A  quarrel  could  be  bridged 
over. 

"Ha,  ha,  a  quarrel !    And  I  am  to  be  arbitrator?" 

"I  think  I  should  have  something  to  say  about  the  ar- 
rangement of  my  own  wedding,"  said  Allan. 

"You  should,  indeed;  I  agree  with  you."  Lansing 
breathed  freely. 

"Well,  if  the  ceremony  takes  place" — the  grasp  on  his 
arm  grew  more  tense — "the  favor  I  ask  Mr.  Lansing  is, 
that  the  affair  be  extremely  quiet." 

"Sure,  sure."     Lansing  looked  his  disappointment. 

"And  for  business  reasons,"  Allan  concluded,  "the 
date  must  be  changed." 

"The  cards  are  engraved,  uncle;  it  will  be  impossible." 

"Have  you  issued  them?" 

She  did  not  dare  to  make  a  false  statement.  She  feared 
her  uncle,  or  rather  his  wrath  that  might  deprive  her, 
with  hardly  due  notice,  of  his  vast  wealth. 

"If  you  please,  answer  me?" 

"They  are  not  out,"  she  said  sullenly. 

"Throw  them  into  the  fire." 

He  slapped  Allan  on  the  back. 

"Anything  more?" 

"If  you  please." 

It  was  the  supreme  moment. 

Clara  Lansing  understood,  and  again  her  hand  rested 
heavily  upon  his  arm. 


I  HAVE  YOU  BOTH  IN  A  TRAP   20r 

"Then  let  it  be  distinctly  understood,  Mr.  Lansing,  I 
fix  the  date  of  my  own  wedding." 

Lansing's  face  fell.  He  was  a  shrewd  old  gentleman, 
a  nervous  quantity  of  cold  flint.  It  was,  indeed,  a 
quarrel;  he  felt  the  atmosphere,  and  he  decided  to 
straighten  matters  by  direct  entreaty. 

"  As  to  that,  of  course,  you  would  not  put  a  slight  upon 
my  niece.  So  much  has  been  written  and  said  of  the 
affair  I  would  not  care  to — to  postpone  the  date.  I 
would  prefer,  as  the  wedding  is  to  be  extremely  quiet  and 
so  on,  that  it  take  place,  unless  you  can  advance  a  good 
excuse — for  our  friends,  you  know,  are  to  be  considered 
— it  should  take  place  as  soon  as  possible." 

Clara  Lansing  smiled.  Half  a  victory  is  better  than 
defeat. 

"Your  arm?"  inquired  Allan  solicitously,  avoiding  the 
appeal. 

"Oh,  it  is  getting  on  nicely.  Wish  I  could  sue  for 
damages." 

Allan  moved  over  to  the  door,  but  Clara  Lansing 
followed  him. 

"Will  you  kindly  fix  the  date  of  the  wedding  before 
leaving  the  house  ?"  she  said  icily,  and,  in  a  whisper,  "If 
it  costs  my  soul  I  will  defame  that  girl.  I  will  speak  out 
if  YOU  leave  the  house  without  fixing  the  date." 

Allan  stood  two  minutes  with  his  hand  upon  the  door- 
knob, and  then  fumbling  with  papers  in  the  side  pocket 
of  his  coat,  took  out  one  and  examined  it,  gaining  time. 
Finally  he  walked  over  to  the  table  where  Lansing  was 
standing,  and  he  gave  a  date — one  week  earlier  than  the 
date  of  Dorothy's  ball. 

He  left  the  house.  He  had  seen  Clara  Lansing  in 
full  illumination. 


CHAPTEE  XXL 

THE  DEAD  MAN^S  LIFE  WAS  AN  EXAMPLE. 

THE  days  dragged  in  the  mountains.  Sometimes  the 
patient  seemed  better,  again  his  condition  seemed 
unchanged. 

Mrs.  Scott  often  remained  over  night  and  Maithele 
utilized  much  of  the  time  in  journeys  to  and  from  the 
island. 

The  air  was  fine,  invigorating,  and  regretting  only  that 
to  please  Aunt  Helen,  she  had  left  Lady  Dee  in  the  sta- 
ble, she  reclined  among  the  cushions  of  the  yellow  phae- 
ton and  gave  herself  up  to  reverie. 

True  love  is  the  river  of  the  soul,  and  its  loftiest  aim, 
its  highest  purpose,  is  simply  to  bear  the  burden  of  its 
own  song.  Like  a  zephyr,  kind  thought  ripples  the 
stream  or  lifts  its  melody  upon  happy  pinions,  thus  help- 
ing to  forgetfulness,  or  leading  safely  over  the  arid 
wastes  that  block  out  miles  of  the  beautiful  way. 

Fortunately  Maithele  had  never  learned  in  that  cer- 
tain school  of  the  world  that  regards  love  as  a  transac- 
tion, binding  in  faithfulness  by  a  law  inexorable  and  cold 
and  having  no  sympathetic  connection  with  spirit  or 
ideal  principle.  Where  love  had  gone  so  willingly  it 
would  remain  forever. 

There  are  natural  rights  not  easily  set  aside.  She  did 
not  determine  to  obliterate  Allan's  memory;  there  was 
no  need.  Besides  it  is  not  possible  to  turn  the  current  of 
a  natural  channel  into  contrary  ways.  Her  thoughts  flew 

208 


swift  as  wings  to  days  happy,  because  of  the  warmth  of 
reciprocal  affection.  And  the  exquisite  joys  of  those  days 
were  not  banished  if  rudely  shaken. 

She  was  returning  to  Ben,  having  spent  several  hours 
on  the  island,  and,  as  the  grays  sped  along  the  beautiful 
road,  her  thoughts  reverted  to  Richard  Allan.  The  gen- 
tleman at  the  same  hour  was  returning  from  New  York, 
having  spent  an  unhappy  time,  as  related,  with  Clara 
Lansing.  Could  Maithele  have  beheld  his  countenance, 
could  she  have  followed  him  into  his  private  office,  could 
she  have  seen  him  when  the  door  was  secure — weary,  de- 
jected, completely  prostrated  and  hopeless,  her  tender 
dreaming  might  have  reached  a  more  disturbing  end. 

Maithele  arrived  at  the  farm-house.  Ben's  condition 
had  not  improved,  and,  consulting  with  the  good  woman, 
she  learned  that  a  change  for  the  worse  had  taken  place 
soon  after  her  departure  in  the  morning.  She  remained 
with  him  almost  an  hour  and  then  went  outside  where 
Pat  waited.  And  as  she  delivered  the  sad  intelligence, 
she  observed  the  doctor  hacking  chunks  of  bitter-sweet 
with  proprietary  nonchalance.  The  bitter-sweet  hung 
recklessly  over  the  fence  to  the  roadside,  a  gold-dotted 
green  fringe  for  the  wall  of  hollyhocks,  that  tall  and 
strong,  grew  on  the  inner  side.  No  one  objected  to  the 
doctor's  audacious  stripping  of  the  exquisite  adornings 
of  an  humble  home.  Doctors  have  privileges  and  con- 
science in  the  matter  of  appropriating  is  not  always  de- 
fined. Maithele  did  not  object  to  the  privilege,  but  to 
the  action,  which,  under  the  sad  circumstances,  seemed 
frivolous.  She  walked  up  and  down  the  little  porch- 
went  inside — came  out  again  with  paper  and  pencil.  She 
sat  down  upon  the  wooden  steps  and  wrote  on  a  slip  of 
paper  and  proceeded  down  the  path. 

"You  will  not  loiter  by  the  wayside." 


210  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

She  addressed  Pat. 

"Now  listen  to  that?  Shure,  I  had  me  orders  to  come 
back  straight  as  the  roads  would  permit  and  I  says,  says 
L,  'I  will.'  I  do  what  I'm  told,  miss,  and  besides  I'm  not 
overjoyed  to  travel  in  these  parts,  after  hearing  of  the 
late  encounter." 

"I  hardly  think  there  will  be  a  repetition  of  that  af- 
fair. You  were  armed  when  you  brought  me  through?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Miss  Dorothy  gave  me  wan  of  them  small  guns.  I 
left  it  back  in  the  stable;  I  never  tech  them  things;  I 
wouldn't  know  which  end  was  foremost." 

Maithele  was  watching  the  doctor,  who  had  fastened 
a  pink  hollyhock  upon  the  lapel  of  his  coat  and  she 
missed  Pat's  witticism. 

"Don't  loiter,"  she  repeated,  and  she  handed  over  a 
telegram.  "You  will  please  not  lose  a  moment  in  de- 
livering this." 

Finding  a  silver  wheel  in  his  hand  Pat  grinned,  slip- 
ping it  into  his  boot.  He  lifted  his  hat. 

"They  be  thrying  as  gals,"  he  said,  as  the  grays  sped 
down  the  road,  "but  for  politicians  they  can't  be  beat: 
they  rubs  everything  into  a  body  with  the  glue." 

Maithele  watched  the  buggy  disappear  around  the 
curve.  The  farmer's  good  wife  was  busy  in  the  kitchen 
and  her  man  was  in  the  field,  cutting  and  binding  wheat. 
Phyllis,  the  one  child,  a  girl  of  ten,  was  watching  the 
patient's  restless  slumber. 

It  had  come  so  swiftly,  the  last  blow.  True,  the  doc- 
tor had  given  little  hope  from  the  first,  owing  to  the 
patient's  advanced  age,  but  Ben  had  been  so  cheery,  she 
had  hoped,  had  felt  confident,  in  fact,  of  his  recovery. 

Why,  as  she  thought  about  it,  only  two  days  ago  he  had 
chatted  with  her  almost  an  hour  without  fatigue.  And 


DEAD  MAN'S  LIFE  WAS  AN  EXAMPLE    211 

now  he  was  going.  She  was  glad,  glad  that  she  had  been 
able  to  remain  near  him  in  the  last  days.  Did  she  owe 
him  nothing  ?  Born  in  slavery,  he  had  remained  faith- 
ful after  emancipation.  What  greater  proof  could  he 
give  of  his  love  for  her  people?  When  her  mother  died 
with  an  infectious  fever,  she  remembered  how  all  the 
servants  had  deserted — all  save  Ben.  When  her  brother 
was  drowned,  it  was  Ben  who  formed  the  crew  that 
dragged  the  lake,  where  they  were  summering,  that  awful 
lake,  for  the  body ;  it  was  Ben  who  brought  him  home  in 
his  arms — God  bless  him !  And  when  the  last  crushing 
blow  came — ah,  how  well  she  remembered ! 

Ben  talked  of  the  old  days  during  his  illness,  but 
Allan  seemed  to  occupy  his  thoughts  most  of  the  time. 
Allan's  fighting  ability,  his  bravery,  stirred  Ben  almost 
to  eloquence  and  Maithele  listened  with  deepening  cheeks 
and  shining  eyes.  Ben  knew  nothing  of  Allan's  engage- 
ment to  Clara  Lansing.  He  had  heard  Allan's  endearing 
words  to  Maithele  one  night  as  she  and  Allan  strolled  in 
the  moonlight. 

Maithele  had  nearly  broken  down — the  change  for  the 
worse  that  had  come  over  Ben  since  morning,  was  so 
great.  He  smiled  weakly: 

"Don't  you  mind  none,  Miss  Maithele,  I  couldn't  a 
held  out  much  longer,  no  how.  No,  I  got  to  go.  I  ain't 
sorry.  I  ben  hangin'  'round  too  long  as  it  is."  After  a 
slight  panting  for  breath  he  resumed.  "I — I  done  square 
by  you,  honey  ?" 

She  could  not  speak,  but  bowed  her  head  affirmatively. 

"Bless  God,  I'll  see  my  Boss,  I'll  see  my  Heavenly 
Father." 

He  was  quiet  again;  then  raising  his  head,  his  eyes 
roamed  around  the  room. 

"I  has  got  something  to  say;  in  my  trunk  is  a  small 


212  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

tin  box ;  it's  yours,  an'  all  that's  in  it.  You  has  only  to 
do  weth  it  is  you  see  fit.  I  want  that  box  this  day.  I 
never  put  my  money  in  no  bank,"  he  went  on;  "the  lit- 
tle interest  ye  git  ain't  equal  to  the  loss  of  the  capital 
when  the  bank  fails,  an'  they  mostly  do.  So  I  jes'  kep'  it, 
carried  it  about,  an'  it's  ben  a  heap  of  trouble." 

"I  am  sure  Ben,  I  will  do  what  is  right  with  the 
money,  but  you  must  not  talk " 

"Oh,  I  ain't  got  much  more  to  say;  but  it's  on  my 
mind  an'  I  can't  rest." 

He  closed  his  eyes.  When  he  spoke  again  his  voice 
seemed  stronger. 

"Your  pa  said  I  was  to  be  put  in  the  family  tomb 
when  I  died." 

"Yes,  Ben." 

His  head  swayed  from  side  to  side. 

"It's  too  far.  It  took  so  long  to  come  way  up  here, 
I'm  feared  my  body  would  never  git  back.  I've  studdied 
it  out.  Your  heart's  sot  in  the  Xorth,  honey,  an'  I  know 
if  I  get  a  green  spot  hereabouts  my  spirit'll  be  apt  to 
follow  you  sometimes." 

She  could  only  say — "Yes,  Ben." 

"That's  all,  honey,  except ?" 

"Except?" 

"I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't  die  peaceful,  'ceptin'  I  see 
Mr.  Allan,  boss " 

Maithele's  heart  stood  still.  This  request  was  unfore- 
seen ;  she  nearly  gasped.  Send  for  Allan !  How  could 
she  ?  She  did  not  respond  at  once. 

"I  know  he'll  come." 

She  did  not  dare  to  keep  Ben  in  suspense. 

"Yes,  yes,  Ben,  I  will,"  she  said  finally. 

He  closed  his  eyes  peacefully  and  presently  she  saw 


DEAD  MAX'S  LIFE  WAS  AN  EXAMPLE    213 

that  he  was  sleeping.  It  was  then  that  she  went  outside, 
worded  the  telegram  and  sent  Pat  off  with  it. 

She  did  not  consider  what  Allan  might  think.  She 
felt  perfectly  sure  he  would  understand.  At  all  events 
she  had  no  choice  in  the  matter.  It  was  her  duty  to 
further  the  simple,  dying  request  of  her  faithful  servant. 
Naturally  she  was  disturbed,  dreading  the  meeting. 

He  would  hardly  get  there  before  the  following  day, 
she  decided,  and  if  Ben  rested  easy,  she  would  drive  to 
see  that  nice  girl — the  official's  daughter  who  had  been 
so  very  kind,  and  thus  avoid  meeting  Allan.  She  did  not 
realize  how  rapidly  Ben's  end  was  approaching. 

Night  arrived,  no  word  from  the  island  and  Ben  grew 
desperately  worse.  In  fact  when  the  doctor  returned  he 
went  at  once  to  work.  Removing  a  glass  bowl  of  fresh- 
cut  flowers  from  the  small  table  beside  the  patient's  bed, 
he  made  a  quick  examination ;  it  was  the  last. 

"No  need,"  he  said,  summoning  Maithele;  "he  may 
live  until  morning." 

And  when  the  good  woman  insisted,  she  refused  to 
leave  Ben. 

"No,"  she  said,  sweetly,  "when  my  father  was  ill  for 
weeks,  Ben  slept  on  a  pallet  by  the  door." 

"Good  soul !"  said  the  woman,  turning  away. 

Maithele  crossed  the  narrow  passageway  leading  to  a 
very  small  room  that  had  been  assigned  her.  Opening 
a  leather  case,  she  arranged  a  few  things  orderly  upon  a 
small  table  that  had  a  square  mirror  hanging  above  it. 
She  loosened  her  hair ;  it  fell  below  the  waist  line,  a  mass 
of  ringlets,  dark  in  the  twilight  of  the  room. 

The  flat  wick  of  the  ungainly  lamp  burned  low.  She 
parted  her  hair  nicely,  braided  and  fastened  the  ends 
with  narrow  white  ribbon ;  then  removed  the  band  from 


214  OUK  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

her  throat,  turning  in  a  trifle  the  neck  of  the  waist  she 
wore. 

The  family  were  assembled,  all  save  Phyllis,  who  had 
retired  after  supper. 

The  good  woman  was  conversing  with  her  husband, 
trying  to  keep  him  from  sleep,  but  his  case  was  hopeless 
and  every  now  and  then  he  would  doze  off.  He  might 
not  have  heard  the  distant  sound  of  approaching  wheels 
had  not  the  wife  dug  him  in  the  ribs  as  gently  as  she 
knew  how. 

He  got  up  with  a  yawn  and  stretched  his  brawny  arms. 
The  vehicle  stopped  and  the  man  took  himself  lazily  to 
the  door. 

"Halloo!"  came  from  the  road. 

"Halloo !"  he  answered. 

"Shall  we  drive  round?" 

"You  had  better,"  from  the  door,  "  'less  yer  want  to 
stay  out  over  night." 

The  man  jumped  out  of  the  vehicle  and  opened  the 
gate  and  came  briskly  up  the  path.  The  other  drove 
around  to  the  stable. 

"Mr.  Allan,  boss,"  murmured  Ben  feebly,  and  Maithele 
whirled  the  long  braids  hastily,  securing  the  knot  with 
a  long  shell  pin,  as  a  light  tap  announced  the  visitor. 

"I  did  not  lose  a  moment,"  bowing  over  her  extended 
hand.  "I  am  glad  the  message  came." 

She  thanked  him,  avoiding  his  eyes,  and  he  crossed  the 
room. 

"Well,  Ben,  I'm  here,  and  I'm  glad  to  be  here." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Allan,  boss.  Thank  Gawd,  I  can  die  in 
peace  now." 

Maithele  slipped  out  of  the  room,  running  against 
Lawrence  in  the  dim  hallway,  and  he  led  her  to  a  seat  by 
a  table,  raising  the  lamp-wick  a  trifle. 


DEAD  MAN'S  LIFE  WAS  AN  EXAMPLE    215 

"I  must  tell  you,"  he  began  at  once,  "Mr.  Dale  is  ill. 
He  arrived  at  the  island  just  after  you  left.  I  am 
substitute." 

"A  kind  substitute,"  but  her  eyes  beseeched  him. 

And  Lawrence  explained  that  Mr.  D'aJe's  illness  might 
confine  him  to  the  house  a  day  or  two. 

"Aunt  Helen  and  Dorothy?"  she  inquired. 

"Are  with  him.  But  they  are  nearly  wild  about  you; 
so  I  came  to  assure  them  that  you  were  all  right."  He 
told  her  how  it  chanced  that  Allan  had  come  so  quickly. 
"I  had  the  good  luck  to  be  at  the  telegraph  office  when 
Pat  arrived;  he  handed  over  the  telegram  to  me  and  I 
called  Dick  on  the  long  distance — read  your  message  to 
him." 

"You  always  do  the  right  thing." 

Maithele  did  not  need  persuasion ;  she  went  at  once  to 
her  room.  Lawrence  promised  to  summon  her  should  the 
end  arrive. 

She  did  not  try  to  sleep,  or  even  think  of  so  doing. 
She  dropped  into  an  uncomfortable  high-back  rocker, 
propping  her  feet  against  the  rungs  of  an  opposite  chair. 
A  funny  little  window  faced  her  diagonally,  and  she 
leaned  forward,  gazing  through  the  small  thin  panes  of 
glass.  Moonlight  silvered  the  whole  rugged  scene,  and 
stars  were  few  and  far,  the  soft  effulgence  recalling  an- 
other night  of  sacred  memory.  In  the  room  across  the 
hall,  was  the*  man  to  whom  she  had  plighted  her  troth 
and,  swiftly  passing  to  the  great  tribunal,  the  one  wit- 
ness. Not  that  she  or  the  man  required  the  witness ;  both 
would  have  gloried  in  the  confession  had  it  not  been  for 
the  unfortunate  entanglement. 

With  death  upon  the  doorstep,  a  weird,  uncanny  feel- 
ing gets  into  the  air,  and  strange,  mysterious  whisper- 


21t>  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

ings,  like  voices  from  the  occult,  wing  imagination  with, 
arrow  flights  to  limitless  bounds. 

Maithele  heard  the  hoot  of  the  night  bird,  saw  the 
wind  ghosts  dancing  by  and  felt  the  touch  of  the  unseen. 

The  last  link  connecting  her  with  the  old  life  was 
about  to  snap.  A  tremor  shook  her  frame,  and  she  pressed 
her  lips,  one  against  the  other,  to  keep  back  the  pain. 
Oh,  the  loneliness  of  night !  One,  two  hours  she  waited, 
waited.  Not  a  sound  within  the  little  house.  The  room 
had  grown  cold ;  she  felt  it,  and  drew  a  light  shawl  about 
her  shoulders.  Her  head  inclined  forward;  one  hand 
tightly  pressed,  rested  under  her  chin,  the  elbow  upon 
the  arm  of  the  chair. 

Drowsiness  comes  so  ingratiatingly,  she  did  not  realize 
the  mastery  of  sleep;  the  eyelids  drooped,  the  night- 
vision  fluctuated,  hung,  dropped  to  oblivion. 

The  blessing  of  forgetfulness  is  a  precious  boon — a 
merciful  stop-over  in  the  awful  rush — of  the  active  brain. 
Yet  dreams  came  to  an  end — startling  sometimes,  and 
crushing  often  enough.  Her  eyes  opened,  opened  wide; 
the  scene  without  was  as  she  left  it  before  drowsiness 
came,  and,  with  brave  resolve,  she  tried  to  imagine  green 
hills  and  sunshine  through  the  little  panes  of  glass;  to 
recall  the  picture  as  she  remembered  it  in  the  bright  day. 
But  the  moonlight  had  the  landscape  folded  in  a  shroud 
and  winds  were  calling  softly  for  the  wraiths  to  advance. 
As  she  gazed,  pell-mell,  down  the  hills  they  flew,  long 
thin  ghosts ;  up,  up  the  hills  they  scurried.  She  watched 
their  reckless  course  with  irresistible  fascination. 

But  the  dance  of  ghouls  is  an  uncanny  dance  and  she 
was  turning  away  from  spectral  night  as  something 
rapped  lightly  with  metallic  knuckles.  Startled  and 
quivering,  she  drew  back,  but  something  compelled  her 
gaze ;  with  eyes  staring  stonily  she  saw  a  long,  slim  finger 


DEAD  MAN'S  LIFE  WAS  AN  EXAMPLE    217 

draw  a  death's-head  upon  the  glass  window  pane.  The 
blood,  cold  in  her  veins,  rushed  to  her  heart,  nearly 
checking  its  beat  forever.  She  was  all  unstrung;  it  was 
only  the  midnight  breeze  heedlessly  tossing  a  frost- 
pinched  leaf  against  the  pane. 

And  then  reality  spoke — spoke  with  the  awful  voice  in 
the  presence  of  which  imagination  is — nothing. 

She  heard  a  firm  step  cross  the  hall,  pause  at  the 
door,  knock. 

"Miss  Burton?" 

"Yes." 

"He  wishes  to  say  good-by." 

The  step  retreated  down  the  passage,  knocked  softly  at 
another  door  and  Lawrence's  kind  voice : 

"Will  you  please  arise?  I  have  just  called  the  young 
lady.  The  man  is  dying." 

Smothering  a  sob,  Maithele  hurried  across  the  hall. 

Ben's  eyes  were  closed  as  Maithele  entered  the  room, 
and  Allan  sat  at  the  side  of  the  couch  with  averted  face. 

Lawrence  was  mixing  something  in  a  glass.  Into  the 
mixture  he  dipped  a  thin,  white  cloth,  and  bending  over 
Ben,  moistened  the  lips.  The  patient  revived,  opening 
his  eyes  upon  Maithele  and  Allan  seated  opposite  each 
other.  He  did  not  speak,  but  a  smile  flitted  across  his 
mouth  and  his  eyes  closed.  The  woman  came  into  the 
room.  She  bustled  about  after  the  manner  of  her  kind, 
and  spoke  to  Lawrence,  who  followed  her  outside. 

She  explained  that  her  man  would  sleep  on  yet  a  while 
as  he  had  a  hard  day's  work  ahead  of  him.  If  Lawrence 
would  kindly  assist  her,  she  would  get  a  fire  started  in  the 
kitchen.  And  Lawrence,  whose  ability  in  that  line  had 
never  been  thoroughly  tested,  followed  the  good*voman 
into  the  kitchen. 

Ben's  eyes  shone  with  intelligence.    The  tin  box  Law- 


218  OITE  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

rence  brought    was   in   his   hand.     He  handed   it    to 
Maithele. 

"It's  yours,  honey.  I'm  givin'  it  'fore  I  goes,  so  that 
the  law  can't  git  a  dispute  over  it." 

"Oh,  Ben ;  please  don't,"  said  the  girl,  putting  the  box ' 
aside. 

"It's  for  you,  an'  all  thet  's  in  it  is  for  you."  His 
eyes  rolled  over  to  Allan. 

"Air  you  witness — Mr.  Allan,  boss?" 

"I  am  witness,  Ben." 

"Do  not  talk,  it — it  hurts  you." 

Maithele  spoke  with  uncertain  voice.  Ben  interrupted. 

"I'm  goin',  honey,"  he  paused,  "an'  I'm  blessin'  the — 
Lord — as  I  goes.  He  has  been  good  to  me — an' — an' — 
I'll  see  Him — and  He'll  see  me." 

Maithele  stroked  the  thin  hand  upon  the  coverlet,  and 
Allan  rested  his  eyes  upon  her. 

The  silence  of  the  room  was  broken  only  by  the  breath- 
ing of  the  patient. 

Allan  noticed  the  nervous  tugging  at  the  coverlet  and 
drew  it  up  a  trifle  to  assist  him,  but  Ben's  fingers  fidget- 
ing found  the  hand  and  held  it. 

"It's  the  way  of  the  Lord,  an'  I  am  thanking  Him  for 
His  ways." 

He  managed  to  place  Allan's  hand  upon  Maithele's 
and,  trembling,  she  tried  to  disengage  it,  but  he  detained 
it  gently.  She  did  not  look  up  until  Ben  spoke  again. 
His  breathing  almost  ceased  :  then  the  lips  moved  as  both 
of  his  hands  fell  upon  the  clasped  hands  of  the  two. 
Ben's  eyes  rolled  heavenward. 

"Bless  these  children — Lord — bless  the  path  they 
goin'  trod  together— bless — 

His  voice  failed  and  his  mind  wandered,    "Children," 


DEAD  MAN'S  LIFE  WAS  AN  EXAMPLE    219 

the  lips  murmured,  and  again,  almost  indistinguishable, 
"grand-children — Amen !" 

They  thought  he  was  gone,  and  with  brave  self-forget- 
fulness,  their  eyes  turned  to  him.  He  did  not  speak 
again,  and  Allan  managed  by  a  gentle  motion  to  lift  the 
dying  one's  hands,  at  the  same  moment  bending  forward 
to  press  a  fervent  kiss  upon  the  hand  slipping  from  im- 
prisonment. 

Maithele  buried  her  face  in  the  coverlet,  and  in  so 
doing  the  long  pin  that  fastened  the  heavy  braids  fell  to 
the  floor. 

When  Lawrence  opened  the  door  five  minutes  later, 
the  two  were  sitting  opposite  each  other  as  he  had  left 
them. 

Allan  spoke  in  a  whisper.    She  obeyed. 

"Rest  and  compose  yourself,"  added  Lawrence  kindly; 
"you  will  not  be  disturbed  again." 

He  left  her  at  her  door  and  the  good  woman  brought  a 
cup  of  hot  coffee  which  she  sipped  and  was  grateful. 

About  eight  o'clock  the  following  morning  the  yellow 
phaeton  and  the  grays  stood  at  the  door;  Dorothy  had 
come  for  Maithele.  The  two  men  reached  the  Camp  a 
quarter  after  five.  Mr.  Dale  was  not  disturbed,  as  Law- 
rence and  Allan  had  taken  the  arrangement  of  affairs 
entirely  upon  themselves. 

The  small  corner  at  the  end  of  the  farm,  the  man  and' 
woman  would  not  sell — it  was  offered  with  good-will. 
And  so  at  the  proper  hour  Ben  was  given  the  generous 
measure  of  sod  Nature  allots  to  every  earth-child. 

Maithele  had  returned  when  arrangements  were  com- 
pleted. She  was  accompanied  by  Dorothy,  bearing  a 
great  wreath  of  roses. 

It  was  only  a  little  way  to  go,  across  the  field  of  stacked 


220  OUK  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

wheat  to  the  big  walnut  tree  where  the  yellow  earth  had 
been  thrown  aside. 

No  curious  eyes  were  there,  no  tongues  to  wag  or  com- 
ment. The  official,  Scott,  Lawrence  and  Allan  placed 
the  coffin  upon  the  improvised  hearse,  walking  beside  it 
silently  to  the  grave. 

With  Scott  had  come  the  good  little  minister  from 
Forty  Fort  Church — oh,  the  distance! — to  do  honor  to 
faithful  services  rendered. 

Dorothy  held  Maithele's  hand ;  once  it  quivered  and  a 
sob  broke  from  her  lips  that  nearly  pierced  Allan's  heart. 
Lawrence  stood  directly  opposite  the  two  girls,  his  hand 
resting  upon  Allan's  shoulder,  and  every  little  while 
Allan's  glance  singled  out  Maithele,  with  pathetic  fore- 
boding— marking  the  change  a  few  weeks  had  made  in 
an  unusually  bright  countenance. 

The  service  was  short;  there  was  no  need  of  a  sermon. 
The  dead  man's  life  was  an  example.  Yet,  up  in  the  top- 
most branch  of  the  great  black  walnut  tree,  a  feathered 
stranger  insisted  upon  a  song.  He  sang  as  he  would 
always  sing,  as  his  feathered  posterity  would  sing  after 
him,  when  the  tall  white  shaft  raised  in  memory  would 
bear  evidence  of  the  sharp  finger  nails  of  a  passing  cen- 
tury— the  song  of  peace,  untrammeled  by  the  world. 

They  were  leaving  the  house  and  Maithele  had  the 
good  woman  aside. 

"But  you  have  more  than  paid  us  for  the  little  we  did ; 
if  it  wa'n't  for  the  morgidge,  miss,  we  wouldn't  a  took  a 
cent." 

"Mrs.  Scott  told  me  about  the  mortgage;  it  is  Ben, 
not  I,  who  removes  it." 

Maithele  put  the  thick  roll  into  the  woman's  hand. 

"There  is  enough,  over,"  she  said,  "to  educate  the 
little  girl." 


DEAD  MAN'S  LIFE  WAS  AN  EXAMPLE    221 

The  poor  woman  was  speechless  and  the  anxieties  of 
nights  were  swiftly  forgotten. 

"Look  now  and  then,"  Maithele  pressed  the  woman's 
hand,  'to  that  spot,"  glancing  toward  the  broken  earth 
beyond  the  field.  "I  will  come  again,  and  often." 

She  went  down  the  steps  quickly,  something  breaking 
in  her  throat.  She  did  not  lift  her  eyes  to  the  tall  indi- 
vidual who,  having  assisted  her  to  the  yellow  phaeton, 
jumped  into  the  buggy  beside  Lawrence. 

Phyllis  came  running  down  the  path  with  a  rose. 

"  From  over  ther*  "  said  the  child,  and  Maithele,  bend- 
ing forward,  kissed  her. 

John  Henry  touched  the  grays — away  they  sped  as  if 
life  depended  upon  distancing  the  buggy  that  rattled 
behind. 

And  when  at  last  the  short  cut  to  the  river  was  reached 
and  the  grays  came  to  a  halt,  the  buggy  stopped  also  and 
the  two  men  came  forward.  Lawrence  was  spokesman. 

"They  were  going  straight  on  to  town,"  he  explained. 

"Good-by." 

And  Maithele  gave  her  hand  in  turn  to  each,  and  to 
one  she  said,  a  mist  in  her  eyes : 

"I  will  never  forget  your  kindness — and — thank  you, 
also,  Mr.  Lawrence." 

Allan  answered  for  both. 

"It  was  happiness  to  serve  you." 

"My  father  will  be  grateful,"  smiled  Dorothy.  "I 
hardly  know  what  he  would  have  done,  had  it  not  been 
for  you  two." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  STBIKE  DISCUSSED. 

CLARA  LANSING  made  a  discovery.  Calling  her 
fiance  on  the  long  distance  telephone,  the  gentleman's 
stenographer  had  innocently  imparted  information 
rather  convincing  to  the  lady  as  evidence  of  guilt.  Her 
feelings  were  excessively  wrought,  and  in  a  short  while, 
she  harrowed  up  situations  wherein  Maithele  was  the  de- 
signing woman  and  she  the  victim.  Believing  herself 
cruelly  affronted,  she  planned  a  battle-field.  She  meant 
to  be  fair.  She  would  gain  her  point,  and  then,  with  the 
law  on  her  side,  there  would  be  no  doubt  of  the  issue; 
the  world's  applause  would  be  certain — the  world,  that 
seldom  stops  to  think,  but  rushes  on  with  the  standard- 
bearer.  A  promise  is  sacred  but  not  binding  as  the  law. 
The  law  must  see  as  well  as  hear  the  evidence.  Law  is  the 
sesqui-opinion ;  rule,  regulation,  refinement,  are  the  in- 
gredients. Law  is  not  mere  principle — principle  is 
honor;  but  principle  and  honor  are  part  of  the  law.  The 
promise  is  a  moral  obligation  not  binding  by  law. 

Clara  Lansing  did  not  understand  the  broad  gentleness 
that  reaches  out  with  a  tenderness  born  of  affinity  to  re- 
tain the  sacred  promise.  She  snapped  at  the  bargain 
that  advanced  self-interest,  and  resorted  to  contemptible 
means  to  make  such  promise  binding.  And  Allan  ?  Hav- 
ing opened  his  eyes  to  the  full  illumination  of  Clara 
Lansing,  could  not  have  been  coerced ;  to  save  the  being 

222 


THE     STRIKE     DISCUSSED  223 

he  loved  from  a  scurrilous  charge  was  his  one  consider- 
ation. 

Possibly  ten  days  after  the  passing  of  Ben,  Allan  made 
a  journey  to  the  city.  If  he  hoped  by  so  doing,  to  ac- 
complish something  of  permanent  importance  he  was 
destined  to  be  disappointed.  Apart  from  two  or  three 
stinging  sarcasms  in  reference  to  Ben,  an  unpardonable 
sally  in  which  Maithele  was  the  butt,  the  visit  came  to 
an  end. 

The  true  womanly  pride  that  resents  the  half-hearted 
offer,  the  true  womanly  spirit  that  spurns  the  gift  right- 
fully another's,  the  true  gentleness  that  waits  not  the 
cruel  rejection,  but  with  fine  antithesis  offers  the  good 
excuse,  qualities  that  distinguish  a  true  woman,  seemed 
wholly  lacking  in  Clara  Lansing. 

He  had  not  referred  again  to  the  marriage,  yet  the 
fatal  day  was  approaching.  The  ceremony  would  take 
place. 

Meanwhile  over  on  the  island  great  preparations  were 
going  on.  Dorothy  was  bent  upon  the  ball.  Twice  dur- 
ing one  week  she  made  the  same  comment,  "Is  is  not 
original,  dad?"  And  Mr.  Dale,  whom  she  addressed, 
responded  on  both  occasions,  "Serious,  my  daughter." 
But  he  left  the  final  decision  with  Scott. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Scott;  "thet  ball  proceeds."  They 
were  seated  on  the  long  bench  in  Hammock  Court. 

"I  bed  a  talk  with  the  boys;  the  chief  said  he  wa'n't 
one  to  spile  innocent  amusement  for  the  fun  of  it,  an'  I 
give  him  a  pussonal  check  to  help  the  boys  on.  I  don't 
think  the  chief  would  care  to  see  town  lots  give  away, 
but  he  don't  mine  now  an'  then  if  middling  passes 
'round  the  cake.  He  objects  to  middling  because  he's 
outside  the  union  ranks ;  but  he  hes  to  be  politic  in  order 
to  rope  him  in." 


224  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"And  Dorothy  may  have  her  ball  ?" 

"I  wouldn't  spread  the  envites  too  thick.  You  don't 
want  to  hev'  swells  'round  thicker'n  blackberries  in  sea- 
son when  a  strike  is  on ;  it  don't  look  sociable  to  the  other 
side." 

"And  you  think  it's  bad  policy  to  hire  non-union  men 
to  build. the  pavilion?" 

Scott  assented. 

"If  Dorothy  was  my  girl,  she  couldn't  hev'  anything 
thet  might  stir  the  pot  already  boilin'." 

Dale  was  irritated.  Scott's  comments  clearly  demon- 
strated that  he  might  not  do  as  he  pleased  in  his  own  es- 
tablishment. 

"It  is  not  so  much  my  daughters  affair.  I  am  making 
it  my  own.  The  men  that  come  here  to  do  the  work  will 
be  brought  from  New  York — they  will  be  non-union  men 
— I  shall  hardly  consult  the  strikers  about  my  private 
affairs." 

"I  ain't  throwing  advice  away,  Dale.  Off — course,  as 
your  family  an'  guests  air  to  be  considered,  you'll  take 
the  precaution  to " 

"The  men  I  engage  for  the  work  will  act  as  a  guard. 
I  do  not  anticipate  trouble." 

Scott  jerked  his  gray  slouch  hat  over  his  brow. 

"Neither  did  Dick  Allan  anticipate  trouble  when  he 
went  to  the  top  of  Mount  Lookout,  to  get  the  view." 

"Oh,  I'm  fairly  convinced  that  gang  of  cutthroats 
were — were  just  lawless  fellows.  I  don't  think  the  union 
had  anything  to  do  with  it.  A  thing  like  that  might 
happen  at  any  time,  in  any  place." 

"Wa'al,  I  ain't  carrying  coals  to  Newcastle." 

Scott  was  moving  away,  but  Dale  hung  on  to  the  favor- 
ite topic;  putting  his  hand  upon  the  other's  arm,  detain- 
ing him,  he  opened  up  with  didactic  emphasis: 


THE     STRIKE    DISCUSSED  229 

"Every  man  has  the  right  to  run  his  own  establish- 
ment— to  engage  his  servants  from  the  four  corners  of 
the  globe,  if  so  disposed." 

"Off — course,  off — course." 

But  Dale  would  not  be  turned  aside. 

"To  make  individual  contracts  and  to  shut  or  open  his 
door  according  to  his  own  inclination." 

"Go  on,  Dale.  You  'bout  wound  up,  an'  I'm  attention." 

Dale  did  not  proceed  at  once  and  Scott  questioned 
subsidiarily : 

"You  wa'n't  in  favor  of  the  ball  at  first?" 

"When  my  daughter  suggested  a  ball  on  the  island  I 
was  not  in  favor  of  it ;  it  did  not  seem  serious,  but  as  I 
thought  the  matter  over,  I  concluded  that  it  might  be  a 
good  thing  after  all.  The  ball  proceeds  and  possibly  the 
union  men  will  arrive  at  a  wise  conclusion;  anyway  they 
get  a  lesson." 

"It  ain't  pleasant  to  hev*  to  git  your  learning  after  ye 
hev'  growed  up." 

Scott's  big  hands  went  deep  into  the  pockets  of  his 
sack  coat ;  he  looked  uneasily  at  his  friend  from  the  cor- 
ners of  his  half-closed  eyes,  and  sighed.  He  had  many 
examples  of  Dale's  perverseness.  Yet  he  always  ended  by 
admiring  the  brave,  assertive  spirit ;  on  the  present  occa- 
sion, however,  he  experienced  the  keenest  alarm.  A  fine 
mist  was  in  the  air,  and  Scott's  eyes  sought  the  leaden 
sky. 

"Don't  go,  Scott." 

Putting  his  hand  forward,  Dale  felt  the  dampness. 
The  two  walked  over  to  Bachelor  Quarters.  The  cosy 
place  had  a  deserted  air,  and  lighting  a  cigar  Dale 
eagerly  resumed : 

"  Freedom  should  be  respected,  whether  it  be  personal, 
political,  or  religious;  the  Constitution  of  the  United 


226  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

States  is  violated,  the  Declaration  of  Independence  be- 
comes an  obsolete  document,  if  dominated  by  a  single 
force." 

"Ther'  you  go  kiting.  I  dunno  but  I'm  objecting  to 
freedom  as  I  see  it  in  these  parts." 

"  You  mean  license  ?  License,  Scott,  is  not  freedom ; 
it  is  a  violation  against  law,  and  labor  unions  that  lay 
down  restrictions  are  a  menace,  and  menace  that  throws 
a  country  into  disorder  is  revolutionary.  The  laborer,  as 
you  say,  Scott,  is  entitled  to  his  hire,  but  he  is  not,  for 
the  same  reason,  entitled  to  deprive  a  fellow  laborer,  not 
belonging  to  the  union,  of  his  hire." 

Dale  waxed  eloquent  as  he  continued. 

"Who  are  the  great  sufferers  when  a  strike  is  organ- 
ized ?  Not  the  capitalist — he,  at  least,  continues  to  live ; 
not  the  union  people — they  merely  cripple  themselves. 
It  is  the  class  you  call  'middling.'  Scott,  I  propose  to 
run  my  establishment  to  suit  myself." 

"Got  Bible  teaching  to  jestify  you." 

Scott  drew  at  the  weed,  sending  two  whiffs  to  the  rude 
board  ceiling. 

"The  parable  of  the  laborer  in  the  vineyard." 

Mr.  Dale  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar,  but  made 
no  comment  and  Scott  proceeded : 

"The  fellers  kicked  'bout  wages;  not  because  they 
didn't  git  what  they  bargained  for — they  did;  but  they 
called  the  master  to  task  for  doin'  the  same  kindness  to 
the  other  fellers  that  hecln't  worked  as  long  as  they  bed." 

"Bible  lessons  are  scoffed  at.  I'm  afraid  if  the  Lord 
were  to  appear  again — here  among  the  miners,  for  exam- 
ple— and  say  to  the  men  that  a  mine  is  an  owner's  estab- 
lishment, that  he  has  perfect  right  to  engage  his  ser- 
vants as  he  pleases  and  from  whence  he  pleases,  and  pay 
each  according  to  his  worth,  or,  as  the  lesson  goes,  ac- 


THE     STRIKE     DISCUSSED  227 

cording  to  his  will,  I  believe,  Scott,  these  same  miners 
would  repudiate  the  Lord." 

Scott's  influence  over  Dale  palpably  expressed  itself  in 
the  facetious  rejoinder : 

"Don't  go  heving  pipe  dreams." 
Getting  upon  his  feet,  Scott  walked  over  to  the  door. 
"And  the  days  of  strikes  will  be  over,  Dale — thet's 
your  idee  ?" 

"The  strike  may  never  be  over.  The  strike  is  the  in- 
dividual's privilege;  it  is  a  part  of  his  freedom.  It  is 
not  his  privilege,  it  is  Puritanic  domination  to  dictate  to 
his  employer,  or  to  interfere  with  the  man  hired  to  take 
his  place." 

"Thet's  sense,  genuine  pioneer  sense;  no  pipe  dream 
in  thet." 

Dale  looked  doubtfully  at  Scott,  then  at  his  own  cigar. 
"As  you  know,  Scott,  the  first  trouble  originated  in 
one  of  my  own  mines.  A  small  fire  broke  out;  it  could 
have  been  extinguished  in  a  few  moments;  a  man  was 
told  to  run  for  a  bucket  of  water ;  he  refused ;  he  was  not 
paid,  he  said,  to  haul  water.  Of  course  he  was  promptly 
discharged." 

"Off — course.  What  he  expected  was  thet  the  feller  that 
give  the  order  should  hev'  tetched  his  hat  to  him,  doubled 
his  wages  an'  give  him  an  envite  to  tea.  I  dunno  but 
what  I  would  hev*  don'  it  if  I  had  bin  the  feller." 
He  drew  again  at  the  weed  as  he  continued : 
"If  a  man  hes  idees  as  I  tole  you  years  back,  an'  great 
ambition  to  shine,  ther'  ain't  but  one  way  to  get  shed  of 
both.  Get  a  pack  of  dogs.  Dogs  can't  talk  back  so'st 
he'll  be  worried  or  troubled  weth  their  opinions,  but  they 
can  use  up  his  energy  so  stirringly  thet  it  ain't  fit  for  any 
other  game." 

Dale  laughed,  passing  the  interruption. 


228  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Well,  you  know  the  result  at  the  mine;  we  refused  to 
reinstate  the  man.  The  story  hardly  went  the  rounds." 

The  two  walked  down  the  path  to  the  river,  con- 
versation flagging  between  them.  And  as  the  ferry  dis- 
appeared with  Scott,  Mr.  Dale,  standing  erect  in  the 
skiff,  lifted  his  eyes.  The  peace  of  evening  was  slowly 
creeping  upon  Dial  Rock. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  MARRIAGE  TAKES  PLACE. 

THE  fields  are  stubbled  and  thin,  the  rivers  cool  and 
clear,  and  the  hills  craggy  and  steep  are  tinted  with  olive, 
gorgeous  red,  yellow  and  brown.  Hardly  a  twig,  leaf  or 
humble  flower  or  creeping  vine,  but  feels  the  magic  touch. 
The  wonder  brush  of  Nature's  artist  is  exhausting  the 
color-box,  and  the  picture  nearly  finished  elicits  the  cry 
of  human  admiration. 

Later  Boreas,  driving  down  the  valley  will  see  the  pic- 
ture, and  with  the  usual  vandalism  tear  it  from  its  set- 
ting; but  for  the  present  it  hangs — brown  earth,  deep 
blue  sky  and  gorgeous  foliage. 

Allan,  gazing  from  the  window  of  a  flying  train,  filled 
with  the  perceptive  cognizance  of  the  dilettante,  resented 
the  bold  infringement ;  he  would  have  the  delicate  land- 
scape undisturbed. 

"Three  or  four  weeks,"  he  sighed,  "and  not  a  leaf  will 
remain  of  a  summer  beautiful  beyond  recall." 

It  was  over — the  little  part  he  had  played  in  the  drama 
which  is  the  marvel  of  life;  and  it  is  well,  perhaps,  that 
the  rose-gate  of  Paradise  is  lost  in  mist  when  the  occa- 
sion demands  the  wait  without. 

Clara  Lansing  had  been  very  nice  with  the  wedding  ar- 

229 


OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

rangements.  Things  had  heen  accomplished  beyond  his 
expectations. 

Shortly  after  reaching  the  city,  he  repaired  to  the  Lan- 
sing residence,  and,  being  received  alone,  he  thanked  her 
warmly  for  the  small  favor. 

They  were  in  the  library;  in  fact,  each  occupied  the 
identical  chair  as  in  the  last  visit,  facing  each  other. 
Allan  laid  the  simple  plan  of  the  coming  day  before  his 
fiancee  and  in  part,  she  agreed  to  it — agreed,  at  least, 
that  after  the  ceremony  they  should  leave  for  Rochester. 

"I  have  business  there,"  he  said ;  "it  will  be  more 
agreeable  for  you  than  remaining  here." 

"How  long  will  business  hold  you?" 

"One  week — two,  perhaps." 

"And  then?" 

"The  choice  remains  with  you — Florida,  Cuba,  or,  I 
have  thought  of  Italy ;  neither  you  nor  I  have  been  there 
in  the  proper  season." 

"I  do  not  care  for  warm  climates  in  any  season."  She 
smiled  as  he  suggested  France.  "I  want  to  tell  you — 
of  course,  it  is  a  secret — but  about  the  second  week  of 
October,  uncle  goes  abroad." 

"Oh,  that  alters  our  plan.  It  would  not  be  agreeable 
to — to  find  ourselves  going  over  in  the  same  ship  with 
Mr.  Lansing." 

"That  is  so;  he  might  be  embarrassed  with  our  love- 
making." 

Allan  enjoyed  the  innoxious  sarcasm. 

"Uncle  needs  a  rest,"  she  said,  after  a  short  silence, 
"and — and  we  are  to  have  this  residence;  I  mean,  it  is 
to  be — our  home." 

"Mr.  Lansing  is  kind;  I  am  glad,  too,  for  your  sake. 
I  will  be  in  the  city  off  and  on,  and  for  appearance,  I  will 
put  up  here." 


THE     MARRIAGE    TAKES     PLACE    231 

Clara  Lansing  winced. 

He  was  staring  at  the  dado  above  the  low  bookcase,  and 
wondering  if  the  brilliant  tinting  was  Clara's  taste. 

"I  will  always  make  things  pleasant;  rather,  as  Mrs. 
Allan,  you  will  not  be  subject  to  comment.  You  under- 
stand my  position — I  will  respect  yours." 

She  was  silent,  though  a  terrible  anger  stirred  within. 
She  could  have  annihilated,  plunged  the  small  dagger 
her  fingers  toyed  into  his  heart ;  but  affairs  of  this  nature 
have  shocking  recompense.  She  was  weary  of  words; 
besides,  the  hour  of  revenge  had  not  arrived. 

Silence  growing  oppressive,  Allan  ventured  with  slight 
hesitation : 

"I  was  a  trifle  worried  about  the — the  form ;  we  differ, 
you  know,  about  marriage.  But  I  have  talked  it  over 
with  your  minister." 

"Talked  what  over  ?"  And  the  dangerous  toy  designed 
as  a  paper-cutter  fell  to  the  floor. 

"The  form  to  be  used."  Allan  grew  reckless,  noting 
her  trepidation.  "You  told  me  you  considered  marriage 
a  silly  ceremony.  In  a  certain  sense,  I  agree  with  you; 
so  much  depends  on  the  way  in  which  one  prepares  for 
the  solemnity.  In  our  case,  the  word  'obey'  and  'prom- 
ise to  love'  will  be  eliminated  from  the  prescribed  form." 

"And  you  arranged  this  with  our  minister?" 

"He  arranged  it  with  me." 

"You  told  him— that  I " 

"  Credit  me,  where  my  name  is  concerned.  The  rever- 
end gentleman  was  informed  that  Mrs.  Allan  should  not 
feel  herself  obliged  to  obey,  and  that  distinctly  for  Mrs. 
Allan  the  compulsory  phrase  'promise  to  love'  would  be 
in  poor  taste." 

"Bah!    What  are  words?" 
"They  are  all  or  nothing,  as  we  use  them." 


232  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

He  lifted  the  dagger  from  the  floor,  and  placed  it  upon 
the  table,  regarding  the  girl  silently.  Then  finding  his 
timepiece,  he  snapped  the  lid  with  a  slight,  "Pardon 
me  !"  It  was  too  late  for  controversy. 

The  following  day,  about  noon,  Allan  and  Lawrence 
entered  the  splendid  mansion. 

Allan  was  punctual  to  the  minute  and  the  minister 
was  not  tardy.  But  the  minister  waited;  Mr.  Lansing 
waited ;  and  the  few  guests  assembled  studied  the  decora- 
tions without  comment.  Almost  hanging  to  the  Gre- 
cian goddess,  holding  the  silver  lamp  at  the  foot  of  the 
stair,  Lawrence  waited  the  signal  from  the  landing 
above. 

They  waited — he  waited — almost  an  hour. 

Speculation  is  the  flocculent  state  of  the  brain.  A 
spark,  and  the  whole  is  aflame;  a  hint,  every  fibre  is  a 
phantom,  and  every  phantom  a  flame.  Thought  whirls 
to  the  highest  pinnacle,  or  drops  to  the  lowest  abyss.  A 
feather  floats  into  the  open,  and  immediately  swells  into 
plumes.  A  simple  rose  springs  from  the  sod,  and  a  gar- 
den appears;  the  rose  is  a  garden — the  garden 
Paradise ! 

But  speculation  spends  itself  more  readily  than  its 
power  creates. 

Lawrence  experienced  the  phenomenon  in  the  trying 
hour,  conjuring  up  situations  that  suddenly  melted,  like 
a  drop  of  kerosene  in  the  blaze.  If — if — oh,  the  won- 
derful phantasmagoria !  Clara  Lansing  eloped  with  an 
understudy;  the  uncle,  irate  and  distracted,  condoling 
with  the  groom,  who  simply  smiles  at  the  delightful 
vicissitude  of  fate. 

But  the  wonderful  denouement  was  the  full-throated 
whisper  that  came  without  warning  from  the  landing 
above: 


THE     MARRIAGE    TAKES     PLACE    233 

"The  bride !" 

Lawrence  fell  suddenly  limp,  as  he  turned  to  give  the 
signal  to  the  page,  who  at  once  conveyed  the  message  to 
the  library. 

The  page  accompanied  Clara  Lansing  to  the  first  land- 
ing of  the  broad  stairway,  and,  as  he  advanced  again  the 
wedding  march  from  Lohengrin  rang  out,  and  the  bride, 
charmingly  gowned  for  a  journey,  entered  the  drawing- 
room  on  the  arm  of  her  uncle. 

The  marriage  ritual,  at  no  time  lengthy,  is  short- 
ened by  request.  And  the  reverend  gentleman  im- 
proved upon  brevity  by  delivering  himself  of  a  little  ora- 
tion before  the  responses,  to  which  the  guests  might  have 
found  themselves  obliged  to  harken,  had  not  a  soft 
pianissimo  accompanying  a  violin  solo  proved  a  coup  de 
grace. 

Naturally,  roses  were  in  order,  but  their  profusion 
was  rather  too  lavish  for  the  occasion.  The  Bride  rose 
was  conspicuous  for  its  absence,  but  the  American  Beauty 
was  in  evidence;  they  stood  bold  and  beautiful  against 
the  wall,  upon  the  mantel  and  on  an  exquisitely  carved 
pedestal  near  the  bride  and  groom. 

Directly  facing  the  groom,  in  a  far-away  corner,  was 
the  piano  and  beside  it,  the  slender  figure  of  the  girl 
violinist. 

Her  face  was  hidden  by  the  tall  clump  of  palms,  but 
the  white  of  her  gown  was  visible  through  the  green. 

As  the  oration  ended,  before  the  first  response  was 
made,  Rubinstein's  Melody  in  F  floated  through  the 
room. 

Allan  trembled,  strong  man  though  he  was,  and  the 
words  his  heart  created  for  the  Melody  the  first  night  he 
heard  it,  dropped  like  beads  from  a  rosary  whose  chain 
held  a  cross ; 


OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 


Deep  in  my  heart  is  a  cry  that  awakes, 

Filling  my  soul  with  joy  till  it  breaks ; 

Oh,  the  sweet  words,  like  roses  that  blow 

From  gardens  of  dream — that  were  long,  long  ago. 

He  forgot  the  woman  at  his   side — forgot  the  people 
and  the  minister,  waiting  for  his  response.     And  the 


semplice. 


minister's  face  went  suddenly  pale.     The  bride  grew 
florid. 

"Repeat,  if  you  please,"  said  the  reverend  gentleman 
for  the  second  time ;  but  the  violin  cried : 


mf 
Call  -  ing    to       me 


— , fir PH 


r— * — 


Voice  sweet  and    low 


"Calling  to  me  in  accents  low — 
Never  to  part — to  part  again." 


THE     MARRIAGE     TAKES    PLACE    235 

The  bride  was  forgotten.  The  voice  was  calling — 
the  voice  he  would  ever  hear,  ever  keep  with  him  unto  the 
last  day.  The  music  floated  on  and  with  it  the  beautiful 
memory,  and  his  soul  answered  with  the  melody : 

Loved  one  I  hear,  but  shackled  and  bound, 
Your  voice  is  the  life — ineffable  sound 
That  cheers  me  and  comforts,  and  bids  me  arise; 
My  spirit  will  dwell  in  the  light  of  your  eyes. 

The  suspense  lifted  at  last.  The  music  ceased  and  his 
thoughts  came  back  to  the  world.  His  eyes  held  the 
minister,  whose  fine  face  bore  lines  of  deep  anxiety,  as, 
for  the  third  time,  he  spoke : 

"Kindly  repeat  after  me " 

And  to  his  intense  relief  Allan  mumbled  through  the 
form  that  short,  though  it  was,  seemed  all  the  way  to 
eternity. 

Clara's  revenge  fell  heavy. 

She  had  discovered  the  girl  violinist  at  a  concert  some 
days  before  and  engaged  her  for  the  ceremony. 

If  she  hoped  that  Allan  might  fancy  the  girl  to  be  the 
being  he  loved,  she  was  mistaken.  The  living  presence 
would  hardly  have  shaken  his  belief.  He  was  simply  car- 
ried beyond  himself  with  memories — broken,  dead,  and, 
as  he  believed,  never  to  be  realized. 

The  influence  had  not  lifted  as  Lansing  offered  his 
warm  congratulations.  And  then,  for  the  first  time,  he 
met  the  bride's  mother  and  sisters. 

The  breakfast  followed. 

Lawrence,  the  only  friend  of  Allan  present,  meant  to 
do  the  proper  thing,  but,  lifting  the  sparkling  glass,  it 
slipped  from  his  fingers,  broke,  and  the  toast  was  lost. 

The  piano  and  violin  continued  heart-piercing  adagios. 
The  bride  had  arranged  the  programme. 


236  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

And  at  last !  At  last !  They  were  off,  Lawrence  ac- 
companying the  bride  and  groom  to  the  train.  In  the 
nice  compartment,  Mrs.  Allan  found  flowers,  bon-bons, 
books;  but  the  gentleman  who  arranged  her  chair  and 
folded  her  coat  had  not  touched  her  hand. 


a  a' 

-"  w 
a  * 

H   co 

§5 
a  H 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  OPPORTUNITY  FOR  REVENGE. 

TASSO  was  there,  ready  for  his  one  feature  act — a  pink 
flower  in  his  mouth,  and  a  stalk  of  blooms  at  his  feet. 

"Wa'al,  I'll  swan!" 

Scott  was  gazing  fondly  upon  his  pet. 

"I  told  him  to  git  two  flowers  for  the  puttiest  girls  in 
the  land,  so  he  goes  off  an'  gits  a  whole  stock  of  'm. 
He  won't  play  favorites,  no  sire,  not  him — too  politic." 

Scott  waved  his  hand  to  Dorothy  and  Maithele,  who 
came  out  on  the  veranda  as  the  two  men  were  discussing 
the  merits  of  Tasso. 

"The  fust  one  of  you  thet  gits  married,  gits  Tasso — 
dead  sure." 

He  patted  the  dog  on  the  head,  turning  to  the 
veranda : 

"Louisa  wants  to  know  if  she  be  required  to  wear 
fancy  dress  to  your  ball." 

Dorothy's  deportment  was  at  once  grave. 
$     "Aunt  Helen  has  decided  upon  the  costume  of  a  Colo- 
nial Dame,  but  she  will  not  mask.    Tell  Mrs.  Scott  not 
to  bother  with  fancy  costume." 

Maithele  twined  her  arm  lovingly  about  Dorothy,  and 
Scott,  with  tender  eyes  upon  the  two,  marked  the  sweet 
pensiveness  of  one.  He  felt  that  for  Maithele  the  ball 
would  have  no  enjoyment.  The  taking  away  of  a  faithful 
servant  should  not  alter  plans  nicely  begun  before  the 

237 


238  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

misfortune,  but  Scott  Avished  for  Maithele's  sake  that 
Dorothy  had  given  up  the  ball.  Two  blows  within  the 
month  was  rather  severe;  he  knew  that  both  had  gone 
hard  with  her. 

"I'll  tell  Louisa,"  he  said,  lifting  his  hat.  "I  know 
she  wouldn't  wore  a  mask.  I  heV  an  engagement  for 
the  early  part  of  the  evening,  but  I  guess  I'll  be  round 
time  to  see  Louisa  home." 

Dorothy  smiled,  giving  Maithele  a  pinch;  and  when 
Scott  disappeared  she  clapped  her  hands  with  delight. 

"He  will  be  among  the  maskers.  Watch  for  him, 
Maithele.  Won't  it  be  fun  ?" 

Scott  was  beside  himself  with  schoolboy  happiness, 
and  the  troubled  thoughts  pending  upon  the  strike  situ- 
tion  were  instantly  dispelled  from  his  brain. 

A  costume  ball  was  the  acme  of  his  conception  of 
social  frivolity — the  nugation  of  the  wealthy.  He  ran 
over  to  Allan's  town  one  fine  day,  and  consulted  the  good 
taste  of  that  gentleman. 

Scott's  broad  shoulders  and  bearing  suggested  the 
military  man,  and  when  the  full  regimentals  came  home 
Scott  went  into  them,  and  immediately  presented  him- 
self to  his  spouse,  who  sat  placidly  knitting  a  woolen 
sock  in  the  front  room  upstairs. 

She  was  speechless  at  first;  and  then  volubility  broke 
upon  the  unsuspecting  yet  somewhat  conscious  Colonel. 

"If  you  don't  take  me  back  to  war  times;  but,"  re- 
flectively; "in  the  name  of  common  sense  an' reason " 

"Wa'al,  what's  the  trouble?" 

"Si  Scott !  Did  you  ever  see  a  sol-ger  with  a  mask  ?" 

Scott  looked  terribly  stricken,  but  he  answered  with 
some  show  of  spirit : 

"No,  Louisa,  I  can't  say  thet  I  ever  did  'less'n  it  was 
a  mask  of  mud." 


OPPORTUNITY  FOR  REVENGE    239 

Her  tongue  spun  on  with  the  velocity  of  a  top. 

"I'm  naturally  desappointed — a  sol-ger?  Now,  who 
ever  heard  of  a  sol-ger  squimmidging  into  a  house  where 
he's  naturally  envited,  showing  a  false  face !" 

"Off-course,  Louisa,  in  war  times  he " 

"I  ain't  hearing  'bout  war  times  now;  they  be  passed 
an'  gone  and,  fer  as  I'm  concerned,  forgotten.  It's  the 
present  I'm  looking  to.  Declare,  I'm  dumb !  I  thought 
ye  was  going  to  hev'  a  jacket  weth  lace  'n  the  sleeves  an' 
one  of  them  long  capes  like  I  see  in  pictures,  weth 
silver  fringe  on  it;  velvet  breeches,  an'  shiny  boots.  Oh, 
I  hed  an'  idee  of  style,  an'  here  you  walk  in  like  a  com- 
mon sol-ger.  I  ain't  blamin'  you,  Si;  I  thenk  your 
handsome  anyway  your  put,  but  I  can't  get  over  Dick 
Allan.  I  wonder  what  he  was  thenking  about  ?" 

She  sighed,  looked  kindly  at  Scott,  and  began  again, 
with  a  retrospective  note : 

"I  don't  suppose  he  can  be  blamed  exactly ;  dunno  but 
what  I'd  don'  wurst  if  I'd  bin  in  his  place ;  it's  a  terri- 
ble setuation  to  be  married  to  the  wrong  girl!  It's  a 
wonder  to  me  he  didn't  advise  you  to  go  off  an'  be  a 
bride." 

"Oh,  Dick  Allan  wa'n't  married  when  we  talked  to- 
gether about  thes  rig." 

"I  know  he  wa'n't ;  but  he  was  on  the  eve  of  it,  which 
is  about  the  same."  She  broke  off  abruptly.  "Seen 
him  sence?" 

"Yestidy." 

"I  hope  he  ain't  livin'  fair  an'  square  weth  her  after 
all  she  done  ?" 

"Lord  a-mighty,  Louisa,  the  questions !  Do  you  sup- 
pose I'm  goin'  to  cut  friendship  by  astin'  pussonals?" 

Possibly  the  rebuke  went  home;  her  voice  modulated 
as  she  ventured : 


240  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"He  didn't  say  anything?" 

"He  bed  a  lot  to  say." 

Scott  walked  over  to  the  door,  listened,  closed  it  with 
quiet  satisfaction,  returning  again  to  the  chair  beside 
Mrs.  Scott. 

"He  left  the  bride  in  Rochester  day  before  yestidy," 
said  Scott,  taking  the  just-begun  sock  out  of  Louisa's 
hand  very  nicely,  and  throwing  it  across  the  room. 

"I  hate  to  see  you  workin'  all  the  time.  Go  into 
town:  buy  forty  dozen  pairs " 

"I  declare,  Si  Scott !    I  was  jest  at  the  turn." 

"Wa'al,  turn  thes  way  an'  listen  to  me."  And  he 
gave  the  plump  chin  a  loving  pinch. 

"I'm  looking  f  er  trouble,  Louisa ;  leastwise  Dick  Allan 
is.  He's  got  wind  of  suthen  thet  might  take  place,  an' 
thin  again  it  mightn't." 

Mrs.  Scott  was  all  attention,  and  Scott  imparted  the 
information  he  had  obtained  from  Allan. 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Mrs.  Scott,  when  the  husband  sub- 
sided ;  "mighty  glad  thet  you'll  be  a  sol-ger.  An'  where 
will  Dick  Allan  be  if  the  encounter  takes  place  ?" 

"Not  on  the  fence,  Louisa.  Wa'al,"  getting  upon  his 
feet,  "before  I  git  thes  rig  off  I'll  show  myself  to  the 
dogs." 

He  strutted  forth,  and  Mrs.  Scott,  recovering  the 
knitting,  picked  up  her  stitches  exactly  at  the  turn, 
making  several  elucidations  which  no  one  heard.  Mr. 
Dale  got  one  for  perverseness,  and  Dorothy  one  for  being 
"set  upon  the  ball;"  but  it  was  the  knitting,  after  all, 
that  received  the  full  share  of  abuse.  She  wound  and 
unwound  the  yarn,  put  in  stitches,  and  pulled  out 
stitches,  and  finally  gave  up  the  pleasing  task.  "Si's  a 
sensible  man,"  she  said  aloud ;  "enstead  of  working  thes 
way,  I  might  be  making  lemon  pies." 


OPPORTUNITY  FOR  REVENGE 

The  sock  went  into  a  corner,  where  it  remained  for 
many  days. 

Allan  had  gotten  wind  of  something  that,  coming 
from  a  direct  source,  filled  him  with  grave  apprehen- 
sion. He  did  not  make  explanations  to  Mrs.  Allan.  In 
fact,  Mrs.  Allan's  maid  informed  him  when  he  an- 
nounced himself  in  the  little  reception-room  which 
divided  their  residences,  that  her  mistress  was  resting. 
He  wrote  a  letter  of  some  length,  leaving  it  where  Mrs. 
Allan  might  find  it. 

Then  Allan  came  again  to  Pittston.  It  was  not  his 
intention  to  impart  his  information  to  Mr.  Dale ;  too  late 
to  recall  invitations ;  besides  he  hoped  to  avert  the  pro- 
posed uprising  of  the  union  men,  whose  grievance 
seemed  to  be  the  employing  on  the  island  for  the  festive 
occasion  of  non-union  men.  He  had  succeeded  so  well 
in  his  efforts  that  he  found  leisure  to  run  over  to  his  own 
town.  He  found  a  note  from  Mrs.  Allan  upon  his  desk, 
which  required  an  answer.  The  lady  desired  to  be  posi- 
tively and  immediately  informed  if  he  would  be  in 
Rochester  on  the  following  day.  She  gave  the  excuse 
that  she  had  arranged  for  a  theatre  party.  Always 
courteous,  he  sent  a  telegram  to  the  effect  that  it  would 
be  impossible,  as  business  detained  him  where  he  was. 
Mrs.  Allan's  fury  spent  itself  ere  the  telegram  was 
crumbled  and  tossed  to  the  floor.  She  was  not  taken 
unaware ;  she  was  prepared.  Since  the  first  hour  of  their 
arrival  in  Rochester,  she  felt  that  her  husband's  game 
was  to  keep  here  there,  amused,  until  after  the  ball.  She 
also  convinced  herself  that  he  would  find  an  excuse  for 
leaving  her  to  attend  the  ball.  The  disguise  would  afford 
him  an  opportunity  to  converse  with  Maithele.  So 
overpowering  became  the  hallucination  that,  when  she 
received  his  letter,  which  explained  only  that  he  re- 


243  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

gretted  to  be  called  away,  she  prepared  at  once  for  a 
little  journey,  hoping  that  the  surprise  to  the  gentleman 
might  be  the  desired  opportunity  for  revenge.  Shadows 
of  coming  events  floated  through  her  dreams  and  stalked 
with  every  footstep  of  the  way. 

At  the  same  hour  that  the  husband  boarded  a  train 
leaving  his  own  town  for  Pittston,  the  wife  boarded  a 
train  at  the  station  in  Rochester  for  Wilkes-Barre.  Mrs 
Allan  was  clever ;  she  would  not  take  the  chance  of  run- 
ning into  the  gentleman  whose  name  she  bore.  The  run 
over  to  Pittston  was  onty  a  few  moments,  and  she  would 
not  venture  over  until  dusk.  She  experienced  a  keen 
satisfaction  in  the  thought  of  revenge,  as  Allan  experi- 
enced a  delightful  exhilaration  in  the  thought  of  avert- 
ing serious  disaster  to  friends  inestimably  dear. 

He  had  accomplished  much,  and  little  remained  but 
to  guard  against  the  blow.  As  his  mind  carefully  re- 
viewed the  situation,  boarding  an  outgoing  train,  a  hand 
fell  heavily  upon  his  shoulder,  and,  glancing  up,  he 
recognized  the  kind  official.  It  was  partly  through  the 
official  that  he  had  acquired  the  knowledge  appertaining 
to  the  hostility  of  the  miners.  Together  they  discussed 
possibilities  and  the  attack  which  they  hoped  to 
frustrate. 

About  midday  the  last  touches  were  given  the  music- 
room,  and  Dorothy  spoke  her  approval  as  Jack  Ruford, 
who,  gaining  courage  since  the  event  of  a  certain  nup- 
tial, went  the  length  of  the  room  with  Maithele,  doing 
the  pretty  figure  of  the  scarf  dance  to  the  delight  of  the 
small  audience.  And  the  younger  Miss  Rice  and  Will 
Thomas,  also  inspirited  by  the  desire  for  applause,  fell 
in  line. 

"If  we  do  only  half  so  well  to-night,"  said  Miss  Rice, 


OPPORTUNITY  FOR  REVENGE    243 

fanning  herself  with  a  palm  leaf,  "our  fame  will  go 
abroad." 

"Which  means  that  Frohman  will  engage  us  for  next 
season/  chimed  in  Will  Thomas,  ever  delightful  and 
droll. 

He  strolled  off  with  Miss  Rice,  and  the  others  fol- 
lowed. The  younger  Miss  Rice  was  merely  frivolous. 
Her  kind  is  the  brown  bee  of  society — always  busy,  al- 
ways buzzing;  unlike,  however,  the  pretty  insect  whose 
mission  is  to  gather  sweets,  society's  bee  is  bent  on 
prying  missions  for  gathering  gossip. 

Before  six  P.  M.  the  hostelry,  which  was  merely  a 
temporary  annex  to  Bachelor  Quarters,  had  the  appear- 
ance of  a  wayside  inn  in  a  thriving  town  in  early  days, 
the  innovation  being  the  dress-suit  case,  which  replaced 
the  clumsy  wooden  box  of  long,  long  ago. 

The  guests  were  arriving  from  five  of  the  clock. 

Maids,  valets,  waiters,  running  in  every  direction,  and 
lights  were  appearing  in  all  the  windows.  Lamps  and 
Chinese  lanterns  everywhere;  they  swung  in  trees, 
adorned  balconies,  and  formed  brilliant  strings  of  il- 
lumination reaching  from  post  to  pillar.  Even  the  ferry- 
boat took  on  a  gala  appearance,  as  it  moved  back  and 
forth.  The  whole  scene  was  one  of  fairy  splendor  and 
brilliancy  before  the  twilight  shadows  fell. 

From  the  entrance  of  the  house  proper  to  Bachelor 
Quarters,  a  canopy  stretched,  and  just  beyond  the  Quar- 
ters, where  the  path  sloped,  two  guards  were  stationed. 

At  the  end  of  the  path,  on  a  small  platform  covered 
With  a  Turkish  rug,  stood  the  formidable  person  who 
requested  a  card. 

Mr.  Dale  had  taken  every  precaution  for  the  safety,  as 
well  as  for  the  entertainment  of  his  guests. 

A  mounted  guard  patroled  the  island,  and  as  many 


S44  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

again  in  blue  regimentals  were  severely  on  duty.  Yet 
strange  rumors  were  afloat.  Silas  Scott  heard  the  mur- 
mur, as,  nicely  ensconced  behind  old  Sorrel,  he  sped  to 
the  ball.  "It's  a-stonishing,"  he  mentally  commented, 
"the  folks  that  like  to  crowd  round  ent'tainments  to 
which  they  ain't  envited." 

The  occasion  was  one  of  stirring  interest  to  the  Scotts. 
Mrs.  Scott  could  not  be  persuaded  to  accompany  her 
husband.  As  she  explained  debut  possibilities,  while 
arranging  Scott's  finery  on  the  bed : 

"I  never  was  a  dabu',  Si,  an'  it's  too  late  to  begin. 
Off-course,  it's  different  weth  you;  you  air  a  man,  an' 
folks,  specially  society  folks,  don't  expect  much  from  a 
man."  Saying  which  she  jerked  a  tulip  from  Scott's 
fingers  and  threw  it  out  of  the  window.  "Land  sakes, 
you  ain't  goin'  to  wear  thet  thing !  I  jest  hate  the  smell 
of  tulips;  they  alwus  make  me  think  I'm  at  funerals 
when  I  ain't." 

Nevertheless,  Scott  was  happy,  and  so  overwhelming 
is  the  genius  for  self  that,  arriving  at  the  ball,  he  had 
almost  forgotten  the  loss  of  the  tulip  boutonniere. 

Mrs.  Scott  insisted  that  her  husband  should  do  the 
thing  "prop'ly" — give  the  family  an  "air;"  and  so  Old 
Sorrel  went  flirty,  finding  himself  handled  by  a  real 
coachman.  The  carriage  was  new,  also  the  coachman, 
and  Scott  experienced  no  end  of  uneasiness  as  both 
joggled  at  every  turn  of  the  road.  But  he  held  his 
temper,  as  becomes  a  gentleman  on  the  high  road  to 
civilities,  resting  the  blame,  through  force  of  habit,  upon 
Sorrel.  ' 

"His  head's  plumb  turned  weth  the  sight  he  got  of  me 
an'  the  emportence  of  hauling  a  fashionable  rig;  I 
wouldn't  be  surprised,"  he  went  on  in  a  stage  whisper, 


OPPORTUNITY  FOR  REVENGE         245 

"if  Sorrel  wa'n't  calculating  thes  very  minute  on  a 
docked  tail." 

Through  the  thick  brush  that  skirted  the  edges  of  the 
drowsy  hills  encircling  the  island,  scowling  faces,  eyes 
opening  from  narrow  black  fringed  slits,  sent  threats 
that  failed  to  agitate  the  life  pulsating  across  the 
stream.  The  only  connection  between  aggressiveness  and 
joy  was  the  little  ferry-boat  touching  either  bank  with 
its  meaningless  swish,  swish. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  COSTUME  BALL. 

BEFORE  the  curtain  rises  and  the  play  begins  the  pulse 
quickens  with  the  joy  of  expectancy,  and  the  tightening 
or  the  slacking  of  strings  stimulates  the  mind  to  meet 
the  shrill  ecstatic  call  of  the  clarion,  the  quavering  hush 
of  the  violincello,  the  sonorous  tones  of  the  big  trombone, 
or  the  whisperings  of  the  dulcet  violin. 

But,  the  sorcery,  the  witchery,  of  tuning-up  precedes 
the  dance,  when  loving  twains  await  with  keen  delight 
the  trial  passes  of  the  rosin-bow,  which  preludes  the 
leader's  tap,  sharply  announcing  the  first  step  of  the 
light  fantastic. 

Over  the  river,  across  the  sward,  rapture  bursts  before 
the  brilliant  display — gay  tents,  flowery  awnings,  swing- 
ing lanterns,  lights  and  shadows,  sub-silentio  fantasies, 
to  picture  dreams,  reminding  one  of  days  romantic  from 
pages  of  forgotten  lore. 

Far  off,  perhaps  to  many,  the  invitation  to  the  capri- 
cious whirl,  but  to  hands  already  clasped,  awaiting  the 
irresistible  bidding,  the  moment  has  arrived  that  bears 
them  away  in  the  easy  glide  of  entrancing  melody. 

The  rough  board  walls  of  the  pavilion,  hung  with 
canvas  and  garlanded  with  green,  scintillated  with  elec- 
tric bulbs,  while  fringed  about  the  base,  tall  slender 
palms  completed  the  bower. 

But  what  are  decorations?     It  is  the  people,  gor- 

246 


THE     COSTUME     BALL  24? 

geously   gowned    and    costumed,    that   make   the   real 
adornment. 

The  clock  had  spoken,  the  little  bell  tinkled,  and  the 
sonorous  wakings  of  human  notes  mingled  with  the 
fervid  cries  of  stringed  instruments. 

Overhead,  the  quick  passing  to  and  fro  stopped  short, 
and  the  noise  of  doors  opening  and  closing  abruptly 
ceased.  Corridors  and  stairway  filled  with  a  strange 
people,  just  stepped  out  of  frames  too  long  hidden  in 
garret  holes.  Into  the  reception-room  they  filed,  bowing 
graciousl}',  offering  jeweled  finger-tips  to  stately  dames 
in  Colonial  attire. 

From  the  reception-room  to  the  music-room  only  a 
step,  and  the  throng,  crowd — garlanding  the  walls. 

The  taut  strings  of  the  instruments  fairly  shriek  with 
suspense.  The  Toreador  giving  the  signal,  the  leader's 
wand  tapped  upon  the  stand. 

Carmen  bowed  to  the  Toreador,  smiling  upon  her 
vis-a-vis ;  but  all  eyes  were  upon  the  side  couple  courtesy- 
ing  to  each  other — the  gentleman,  a  tall  Friar,  with  the 
distinguished  bearing  of  a  prince,  touching  the  finger- 
tips of  Autumn,  whispered : 

"No  mask  could  ever  disguise,  no  costume  conceal 
your  lovely  personality." 

Her  gown,  soft  and  clinging,  is  woven  with  a  thread 
of  silver,  and  upon  the  deep  lace  flounce  a  border  of  full- 
blown yellow  roses ;  over  the  bare  shoulders  to  the  hem 
of  the  gown  a  filmy  mantle  drops,  sunset  tint,  literally 
strewn  with  bronze-green  leaves.  The  white  silk  mask 
concealed  the  features,  but  there  was  no  disguise  for 
the  wealth  of  burnish  gold-brown  hair,  parted  upon  the 
brow  and  falling  in  a  soft  coil  simply  adorned  and  held 
in  order  by  two  ropes  of  priceless  pearls. 

The  guests  from  West  Pittston,  and  those  who  had 


248  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

taken  possession  of  the  hotel,  arrived  en  masque.  And 
of  the  many  carriages  that  crossed  over,  one  contained 
a  single  occupant.  She  alighted,  ignoring  the  salver. 

"John  Henry" — the  voice  had  a  forcible  note  in  it — 
"I  dropped  my  card,  possibly  on  the  ferry/' 

John  Henry  inclines  as  low  as  form  permits.  The 
familiarity  pleased  him.  Had  she  offered  silver,  he 
might  have  detained  her. 

The  entrance  door  stood  wide.  She  passed  the  recep- 
tion-room, falling  in  with  the  maskers. 

Enveloped  in  black,  soft  velvet,  glittering  with  tiny 
silver  stars.  The  bodice  of  the  gown,  cut  square,  dis- 
plaj^ed  to  advantage,  perhaps,  a  diamond  necklace  of 
unusual  splendor,  but  the  sleeves  were  long,  reaching  to 
the  wrist.  A  fillet  of  silver,  from  which  lifted  a  single 
star,  encircled  the  brow,  and  a  short  black  gauze  veil, 
fastened  upon  the  crown  of  the  head,  falling  over  the 
shoulders,  completed  the  disguise. 

"Is  that  Night  in  the  doorway?"  inquired  the  Clown 
of  Folly.  Folly  giggled : 

"She  must  be  homely  to  appear  like  that !"  Folly  had 
beautiful  arms,  and  they  were  bare. 

"Watch  me  waltz  with  Night  the  next  round." 

He  disappeared,  likewise  the  dark  figure  in  the  door- 
way, and  Folly  smiled  upon  an  Indian,  who  claimed 
the  dance;  and  even  as  Folly  danced  she  giggled,  and, 
for  the  once,  with  an  excuse.  The  Clown  had  consoled 
himself  with  a  pretty  Flower-girl. 

Silas  Scott  observed  the  peculiar  manoeuverings  of 
Night  from  the  first  moment  of  her  arrival.  He  saw  her 
avoid  the  reception-room,  which  proved  either  that  she 
lacked  nice  deportment,  or  that  she  had  reason  for  avoid- 
ing the  usual  civilities.  When  she  refused  to  waltz  with 
the  Clown,  he  mused : 


THE     COSTUME     BALL  249 

"He  wa'n't  putty  enough,"  and  with  an  after-thought, 
"I  guess  she's  in  mourning  for  somebody ;  leastwise  it 
looks  thet  way." 

Presently  he  saw  the  lady  bend  forward  eagerly,  fol- 
lowing a  couple  whom  Scott  easily  recognized.  Watch- 
ing, he  nearly  forgot  his  own  correct  bearing  by  shoving 
his  hands  deep  into  the  pockets  of  his  trousers. 

But  his  attention  was  further  called  to  the  stranger. 
Following  closely,  he  saw  her  station  herself  behind  a 
clump  of  palms  on  the  far  side  of  which  two  persons 
were  seated. 

He  joined  her,  apologizing,  hoping  to  engage  her  in 
conversation ;  but  she  did  not  deign  to  notice,  and,  brush- 
ing him  aside,  mounted  the  stairway.  He  dared  not 
follow,  but,  growing  intensely  interested,  concluded  to 
wait  her  return. 

Night  expected,  perhaps,  to  find  some  evidence  of 
guilt  in  the  room  she  invaded.  But  her  face  wore  a  look 
of  disappointment  as  she  returned  to  the  ballroom. 

Night  was  mistaken  in  the  tall  Friar.  Mounted  and 
armed,  Allan  at  the  moment  was  on  the  road  across  the 
river,  nicely  conversing  with  two  officers  of  the  near 
town. 

The  telephone  wire  connecting  with  the  island  had 
been  cut,  but  the  electric  display  proved  the  other  wire 
intact.  Too  many  apparently  unarmed  men  were  re- 
creating at  the  rather  advanced  hour.  Yet,  consulting 
his  watch,  he  was  gratified  that  the  time  for  the  threat- 
ened attack  had  passed.  Yet,  through  overanxiety  may- 
hap, or  a  sort  of  presentiment,  the  sense  of  impending 
disaster  seemed  at  hand. 

Nearing  the  turn  in  the  road,  the  officers  cantered 
ahead,  and  Allan,  seizing  the  advantage,  found  himself 
at  the  end  of  the  turn,  facing  the  fern-.  This  was  not 


S50 

the  first,  but  the  second  time  inside  the  hour  that  he  had 
ventured  near  the  fairy  scene.  Drawing  rein,  he  gave 
himself  up  to  reverie. 

But,  could  his  eyes  have  penetrated  beyond  the  swing- 
ing lights,  beyond  the  ballroom  to  a  remote  corner  in 
the  pavilion,  the  wrath  of  strikers,  the  fear  of  attack, 
would  have  melted,  would  have  been  as  nothing  in  com- 
parison. Fortunately,  perhaps,  his  vision  held  only  that 
which  it  filled — soft  lights,  sweet  music,  and  the  witchery 
of  night.  With  a  sigh,  he  gave  the  horse  his  head  and 
galloped  off  to  join  the  officers,  who  were  advancing 
toward  the  turn  with  a  respectable  force. 

Autumn  and  the  tall  Friar,  having  danced  and  enjoyed 
tete-a-tetes  sufficient  for  the  evening,  grew  weary;  at 
least  the  lady  announced  her  mood  with  a  sigh. 

"I  am  thirsty,"  said  the  Friar. 

"You  always  are,"  laughed  she,  "but  behold  my  mercy ! 
It  reacheth  to  a  door,  on  the  inside  of  which  is  the  foun- 
tain of  good  cheer." 

"Oh,  let's  to  it,"  replied  he,  in  the  same  light  vein. 

And  Night,  who  never  for  a  moment  lost  sight  of  the 
two,  followed. 

Two  couples,  through  love  of  sport  or  sheer  ennui, 
also  found  the  side  door  on  the  garden  side  of  the 
pavilion,  and,  as  the  Friar  and  his  lady  entered,  the 
Clown  was  discovered  helping  Folly  to  a  sandwich,  both 
having  removed  masks. 

"This  is  not  in  order,  my  children,"  said  the  Friar. 

Folly  giggled,  but  the  Friar  shook  his  head  severely, 
and  fumbled  his  beads. 

"You  are  giving  bad  example;  and  what  is  this? 
Bread  and  meat,  and  the  prescribed  fast  not  ended  before 
one  quarter  before  eleven  of  the  clock  ?" 

Folly  fell  upon  her  knees. 


THE    COSTUME    BALL  251 

"Oh,  shrive  me,  shrive  me,  holy  man !" 

•'Get  up  r 

The  Clown's  hand  fell  lightly  upon  her  shoulder. 

"Get  up/'  he  repeated;  "thou  backslider;  the  Philis- 
tines are  upon  us." 

But  the  dreaded  foe  proved  to  be  only  Carmen  and 
the  handsome  Toreador.  The  couples  of  the  quadrille 
knew  each  other,  and,  thus  merrymaking,  the  others 
removed  masks. 

As  the  Friar  went  over  to  the  punch-bowl,  the  door 
opened  unceremoniously,  and  Night  entered,  like  an 
ugly  draught,  and,  immediately  after  her,  a  man  of 
splendid  physique,  though  a  trifle  portly,  wearing  mili- 
tary uniform. 

The  intruder  scowled  beneath  the  mask.  She  feared 
the  man,  too,  having  recognized  his  voice,  and  she  pro- 
ceeded cautiously. 

Dorothy's  embarrassment  was  evident,  and  she  forth- 
with apologized: 

"The  mask  is  rather  an  excuse  for  crime ;  I  have  taken 
advantage  of  it  and  neglected  my  guests.  Won't  you 
dispense  generosity  by  removing  yours ;  we  are  dying  to 
discover  you  ?" 

Possibly  Night  did  not  hear;  she  was  moving  over  to 
the  Friar,  and  for  some  reason  inexplicable  to  himself, 
or,  mayhap,  in  a  mere  spirit  of  fun,  he  instantly  secured 
the  mask,  ere  Night  discovered  the  coveted  glimpse.  The 
party  were  finding  seats ;  there  was  some  confusion  on  the 
raised  dais,  too.  It  was  an  interim,  and  two  of  the  musi- 
cians, having  slipped  through  a  side  door  and  around  to 
the  front  veranda,  immediately  entertained  the  prom- 
enaders,  rendering  on  light  guitar  and  mandolin  a 
selection  from  "Carmen." 

Dorothy,  inspired  by  the  aria,  which  belonged  to  a 


OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

Don  Jose,  snatched  a  red  rose  from  the  table  and  threw  it 
at  the  Toreador,  and  Maithele's  warm  impetuous  south- 
ern nature,  with  bold  disregard  for  conventions,  broke 
forth  in  song.  She  was  leaning  against  one  of  the 
decorated  pillars  that  supported  the  pavilion,  the  autumn 
mantle  falling  from  her  shoulders.  Could  she  have  pene- 
trated the  mask  of  Night,  the  passionate  couplet  might 
have  died  in  her  throat;  but  the  joy  of  melody  was  in 
her  soul.  Casting  wistful,  alluring  glances  at  the  Friar, 
the  pathos  in  her  voice  was  never  more  entrancing  as  she 
sang,  softly : 

"L'amour  est  enfant  de  Boheme 

II  n'  a  jamais,  jamais  connu,  de  loi, 
Si  tu  ne  m'  ai  mes  pas,  je  t'aime — 
Et,  si  je  t'aime — prends  garde  a  toi  I" 

Somebody  clapped. 

"Now  come,  come,  daughter,  give  us  the  English 
version." 

"Hear,  hear,  it  is  Mr.  Scott !  I  never  would  have 
known.  Off  with  the  mask,  sir ;  off  with  it !  Oh,  how 
jolly  1" 

"I  ain't  knowing  myself,  daughter,  skylarking  after 
the  mourner,"  he  whispered,  bowing  his  head  forward; 
and,  then,  in  an  audible  voice : 

"If  you  will  kindly  git  the  knot  out  of  thes  string, 
I'll  be  relieved.  The  mask  has  a  limit,  daughter,  an'  me 
an'  it  hev'  tetched." 

The  Friar  was  filling  cups  and  passing  them  around, 
Night  assisting. 

Her  movements  were  easy  and  graceful,  but  the  thor- 
oughly aroused  Scott  felt  that  she  meant  mischief.  He 
did  not  for  an  instant  permit  his  gaze  to  wander  from 


THE     COSTUME    BALL  253 

her,  and  only  the  most  acute  vigilance  could  have  de- 
tected the  clever  tipping  of  the  vinaigrette.  Scott  did 
not  see  anything  drop  from  the  vinaigrette,  but  the 
action  justified  his  alarm.  Dorothy  had  just  slipped  the 
mask  from  his  face,  and  he  crossed  over  to  Maithele. 

"I  don't  like  mixed  drinks,  daughter,"  he  said, 
emphatically. 

Maithele  did  not  understand,  but  fancying  that  he  had 
some  rather  correct  idea  pertaining  to  punch  as  a  bever- 
age, she  humored  his  extravagant  waste.  As  the  contents 
went  out  of  the  window,  Night  vanished. 

In  coming  to  the  ball,  Mrs.  Allan  meant  to  expose  the 
conduct  of  her  husband  and  cast  an  aspersion  on  the 
woman  he  loved ;  the  deadly  fluid  in  the  vinaigrette  was 
a  last  resort;  but,  frenzied  with  the  Friar's  conduct, 
whom  she  believed  to  be  her  husband,  and  the  song 
Maithele  boldly  sung  to  him,  passion  broke  all  bounds, 
and  in  her  desperate  mood,  even  crime  seemed  justifi- 
able. Escaping  from  the  room,  she  discovered  a  dark 
embrasure  between  the  ballroom  and  pavilion,  and 
crouched  into  it,  awaiting  the  passing  of  Scott.  And 
when  she  was  free  of  him,  she  broke  into  passionate 
invectives : 

"The  pest;  the  common  thing!  I  should  not  have 
failed  but  for  him.  I  have  not  been  recognized ;  I  have 
not  been  discovered ;  I  could  have  made  my  escape !" 

She  had  the  chance  to  escape  without  detection;  but 
hate,  that  devouring  bacillus,  entered  her  brain. 

In  the  moment  of  wicked  indecision  the  door  of  the 
pavilion  opened;  the  party  came  forth  without  masks. 
Another  instant  and  the  identity  of  the  Friar  would 
have  been  disclosed.  But  fearing  detection,  she  crouched 
against  the  dark  wall.  Dorothy's  entrance  into  the  ball- 
room unmasked  would  be  the  signal.  And  so  this  was 


254'  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

the  end ;  for  all  her  trouble,  what  had  she  gained  ?  Noth- 
ing! But  as  her  brain  whirled  confusedly  she  saw  the 
party  approaching.  Quick !  She  must  decide !  Now 
they  were  passing.  They  passed,  the  Friar  and  Maithele 
in  the  rear.  Her  hand  clutched  the  weapon,  dropped. 
The  opportunity  passed. 

Trembling  with  rage,  she  acknowledged  utter  defeat. 
The  chance  of  escape  also  passed,  and  the  only  hope  of 
clearing  herself  that  remained  was  to  remove  the  mask, 
find  her  husband,  and  surprise  the  girl.  Scott  was  the 
stumbling  block !  But  she  dismissed  the  thought ;  he  had 
no  proof  that  the  vinaigrette  contained  poison.  She  was 
leaving  the  embrasure,  when  her  vision  beheld  some  one 
in  white  advancing  with  hurried  steps.  Quickly  back  she 
slunk,  barely  in  time. 

Maithele  passed,  entering  the  pavilion. 

Maithele  was  searching  the  floor,  where  the  party  had 
stood  a  moment  before;  evidently  something  was  lost. 

The  door  opened  again.  Maithele  looked  up,  smiling, 
yet  a  trifle  surprised. 

"I  lost  my  moonstone  clasp,"  she  explained  to  the 
intruder ;  "I  prize  it  highly ;  it  was  mother's." 

Night  stood  irresolute,  and  Maithele  insisted : 

"Won't  you  please?    Everybody  is  unmasked  now." 

But  the  demon's  voice  was  whispering  in  Mrs.  Allan's 
ear.  Going  over  to  the  punch-bowl,  she  filled  two  cups, 
tipping  the  contents  from  the  vinaigrette  in  one. 

"Let  us  drink  to  the  lucky  finder  of  the  moonstone," 
extending  the  cup  to  Maithele,  who  accepted.  But  Mai- 
thele's  ear,  wonderfully  trained  to  sound  vibration, 
caught  the  peculiar  resonance  of  the  voice,  and  imme- 
diately placed  it.  The  shock  upon  her  nerves  was  severe, 
but  instantly  she  regained  her  mental  equilibrium;  yet 


THE    COSTUME    BALL  255 

so  intensely  sensitive  is  the  touch  of  the  true  artist, 
Maithele's  fingers  relaxed — the  cup  fell  to  the  floor. 

The  crash  of  glass  arrested  the  beverage  at  the  other's 
lips. 

Maithele  apologized : 

"I  certainly  am  clumsy  to-night;  but  I  will  drink  to 
the  lucky  finder,"  at  once  filling  a  cup  for  herself. 

But  the  desperate  woman,  snatching  off*  the  mask,  con- 
fronted her.  Thoroughly  prepared,  Maithele  offered  her 
hand. 

"Mrs.  Allan — a  pleasure  we  had  not  anticipated." 

"Not?" 

"Beg  pardon;  I  mean " 

"That  you  did  not." 

Maithele  hesitated ;  the  angry  face  disturbed  her. 

"Mrs.  Allan,  I  am  so  glad  you  are  here."  Coloring 
slightly,  "  If  it  is  not  too  late  for  congratulations " 

"Oh,  they  came  with  your  silverware,  which  I  tossed 
over  to  my  maid." 

Struck  with  the  awfulness  of  the  parvenu,  Maithele 
was  speechless.  Her  eyes  sought  the  floor ;  and  she  was 
glad  to  have  the  moonstone  as  an  excuse.  As  she  moved 
about,  her  eyes  searching  for  the  stone,  the  unclasped 
mantle  fell  to  the  floor,  and  with  it  a  light  thud  that 
brought  joy  to  her  ear ;  the  jewel  had  caught  in  the  leaves 
that  adorned  the  mantle. 

Mrs.  Allan  was  instantly  forgotten. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  so  glad  to  find  it."  She  lifted  her 
eyes,  bright  as  stars;  but  the  other  was  glowering  upon 
shoulders,  beautiful  as  Parian  marble,  hair  glim- 
mering with  bronze-gold  lights,  and  cheeks  hinting  June 
roses.  The  vision  of  loveliness  hardly  assuaged  the  ire- 
ful woman ;  something  horrible  stirred  in  her  breast  and 
froze  the  marrow  in  her  bones. 


OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

Maithele  did  not  know  the  real  condition.  Dorothy 
held  sacred  the  sad  information  imparted  through  Law- 
rence. Only  in  speaking  of  the  wedding  ceremony  to  Aunt 
Helen  had  she  forgotten  herself,  breaking  forth  indig- 
nantly over  the  trick  of  the  violin  solo ;  but  before  Aunt 
Helen  sent  the  warning  glance,  Maithele  had  risen 
quietly  and  left  the  room. 

"I  will  find  you  a  chair,"  Maithele  spoke  kindly ;  "you 
look  weary." 

But  the  lady  had  no  regard  for  civilities,  save  on 
occasion ;  her  words  flew  like  poisonous  arrows  at  a  mark. 

"Your  Friar  is  attentive?" 

Conciliation  dropped  like  a  white  plume  into  Mai- 
thele's  thought,  and  she  answered : 

"Yes,  indeed,  and  I  like  him,  too." 

"You  are  very  bold  about  your  likes." 

"Pardon !    Bold  is  hardly  the  word ;  I  like  him " 

"You  dare— to !" 

"If  you  please?  I  do  not  understand?"  And,  after 
a  moment's  reflection :  "This  is  my  personal  affair." 

"It  is  my  personal  affair,"  snapped  Mrs.  Allan. 

Maithele  was  moving  away.  The  other's  words  were 
offensive.  If  she  remained,  she  would,  as  hostess,  be 
compelled  to  listen ;  but  her  opponent,  with  rather  a  dra- 
matic swing  of  the  arm,  barred  the  way,  and  quickly 
slipping  the  bolt  of  the  side  door,  wheeled  about,  with 
menacing  gesture : 

"You  will  remain  here  until  I  am  through  with  you." 

The  pavilion  had  two  exits.  Besides  the  garden  door, 
one  at  the  extreme  end  led  to  the  kitchen ;  this  door  was 
bolted  on  the  inner  side,  and  the  only  other  feasible 
opening  was  where  the  musicians  were  stationed. 

The  musicians  were  playing  a  dulcet  waltz. 

Maithele  did  not  speak   for   several   moments;   the 


THE    COSTUME    BALL  257 

other's  insolence  was  too  much ;  she  lifted  her  head,  con- 
fronting the  enraged  woman  with  that  singular  intelli- 
gence that  explains  the  aristocrat.  And  where  was  Silas 
Scott,  the  good  friend ! 

Lifting  her  eyes  to  the  window  directly  opposite,  she 
fancied  she  saw  a  hand  upon  the  sill,  hut  instantly  it 
disappeared;  and,  concluding  that  conciliation  might 
mitigate  the  unpleasant  feeling,  she  chose  the  simple 
means  as  the  way  to  peace. 

"There  has  been — there  is  some  misunderstanding," 
she  ventured. 

"There  never  has  been  any  misunderstanding,"  de- 
clared the  impossible  wife,  in  a  key  that  instantly  shook 
the  other's  nerves,  like  the  quick  pass  of  the  bow  on  a 
shrill  treble  string  of  the  violin  too  tightly  screwed ;  and 
before  her  thoughts  could  form  a  response,  the  sharp 
notes  of  Mrs.  Allan's  voice  flew  on : 

"Misunderstanding,  indeed !  I  have  been  the  fiancee 
of  Bichard  Allan  for  years, — you — you  tried  to  gain  his 
love — you  despicable  usurper !" 

Maithele  could  not  ape  the  dramatic.  She  was  simply 
glorious  in  womanly  dignity. 

"If  I  have  done  anything  to  bring  about  a  disturbance 
in  your  life,  I  should  be  grieved " 

Mrs.  Allan  tried  to  interrupt,  but  Maithele  waved  her 
hand  with  a  gesture,  daintily-imperious  and  silencing. 

"If  you  please !  I  have  no  disturbed  feelings  against 
you.  I  wish  you  happiness." 

"Happiness !"  sneeringly  echoed  the  aggressive. 

"Is  it  not  possible?"  inquired  Maithele.  "Marriage 
creates  home.  Marriage  is  the  rose-gate  to  real  happi- 
ness." 

And  the  other,  with  no  gift  for  poetic  semblance, 
passed  the  diversion  to  seize  an  advantage. 


258  OUK  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"You  love  him ;  you  cannot  deny  it." 

"On  my  honor,  and  as  a  gentlewoman,  you  have  noth- 
ing to  fear  from  me." 

"Fear  ?    I  do  not  fear, — I  despise  you  !" 

The  vitriolic  outburst  nearly  silenced  Maithele;  then, 
calmly,  quietly,  she  decided. 

"I  would  rather  be  despised  than  loved  by  a  woman 
who  has  so  little  regard  for  the  decencies." 

"Decencies?  And  this  very  night  I  heard  you  sing 
amorous  words  to " 

"Jack  Ruford;  poor  Jack,  who  knows  full  well  the 
words  could  have  no  meaning  for  himself." 

Mrs.  Allan  winced.  Was  she  to  be  overthrown  at 
every  turn  ?  Had  she  failed  utterly  ?  Well, — she  touched 
the  weapon,  and  again  that  cruel,  menacing  expression. 

Maithele  saw  the  action,  and  shivered, — not  with  fear. 
It  was  the  gulp  in  her  throat  for  Richard  Allan. 

"You  came  between !"  hissed  the  other. 

And  Maithele,  disregarding,  grew  magnanimous. 

"Listen  to  me,  Clara." 

But  the  condescension  aggravated  the  other's  intensity. 

"If  you  please  ?" 

And  Maithele  accepted  the  correction. 

"Mrs.  Allan,  when  I  first  saw  Mr.  Allan  I  was  only  a 
child,  and  with  the  child's  heart  I  loved  him,  and — he 
loved  me." 

"A  falsehood !    You  took  him  from  me." 

The  steel  came  back  to  Maithele's  eyes,  and  remained. 

"I  am  hopelessly  at  your  mercy;  wrangling  for  a 
man's  love  is  rather  beneath  my  ideas;  but  I  must  dis- 
illusion you — and,  to  quote  your  own  unseemly  language 
— 'you  took  him  from  me' '''  She  spoke  hurriedly,  as  if 
anxious  to  be  through  with  it  all :  "I  came  East;  we  met 


again — often,  often ;  I  did  not  know  that  he  had  become 
entangled  with  you." 

It  was  the  slip  of  the  tongue ;  she  had  not  intended  so 
much,  but  the  slip  revealed  to  Mrs.  Allan  the  esteem  and 
regard  of  the  rival;  also  the  rival's  knowledge  of  the 
state  of  the  husband's  feelings. 

"Entangled?" 

How  the  word  stung !  Feeling  that  she  had  offended, 
Maithele  plunged  at  the  excuse. 

"You — you  didn't  love  him!" 

"You  evidently  mean  to  be  fair.  No,  I  did  not.  I 
hated  him  when  we  married — I  despise  him  now  !" 

Maithele  nearly  moaned  aloud,  it  seemed  so  terrible. 
From  heart  to  brain  the  words  flashed — not  love  him, 
despise  him ! 

"Well,  I  have  taken  your  breath,  Miss  Burton." 

Maithele  could  no  longer  conceal  the  aversion  which 
the  language  created;  she  could  not  remain  in  the 
woman's  presence  another  moment.  She  would  try  the 
exit  by  the  musician's  stand.  She  moved  off;  the  other 
barred  the  way. 

"You  remain.  If  Richard  Allan  is  in  this  house,  I 
shall  know  in  a  moment,  when  the  crowd  pours  in  and  I 
shall  expose  the  scandalous  behavior  of  both  of  you  to 
the  assembled  guests." 

"You  are  mad  !  Have  you  no  regard,  no  appreciation 
— courtesy  for  your  host  and  hostess  Mr.  Allan  is  not 
in  this  house — at  least,  if  he  is,  I  am  not  aware  of  his 
presence.  Say  to  me  what  you  will  to-morrow — any  time, 
but  please " 

The  other  laughed,  cruelly. 

The  waltz  was  nearing  the  finale;  Maithele  shivered 
with  the  possibility  of  a  scene. 

"If  he  is  not  at  this  ball,"  vouchsafed  the  enemy, 


260  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"bear  my  words  in  mind ;  you  have  only  escaped  me  once. 
You  shall  never  benefit  by  my  lack  of  love  or  ardent  hate. 
I  have  the  right — I  have  the  claim,  and  I  shall  maintain 
both." 

The  bewildering  despotism  'almost  paralyzed  Mai- 
thele's  delicate  sensibilities,  as  she  answered : 

"You  have  established  a  claim,  which  a  true  woman 
might  be  ashamed  to  acknowledge.  There  is  no  just 
right  to  an  unjust  claim." 

"You  !"  cried  the  other,  "you  dare !" 

"  To  speak  the  truth !  The  woman  who  marries  a  man 
whom  she  hates  deserves  the  truth.  There  is  a  right, 
which  justifies  the  claim — where  love  exists  or  did  exist 
when  the  marriage  vow  was  made." 

The  head  poised  on  the  slender  neck  lifted,  bringing 
the  round  chin  into  prominence,  and  the  eyes^  shining 
like  stars,  passed  the  wife  as  she  continued : 

"By  that  high  authority  which  unites  through  mutual, 
kindred  feeling  and  sympathy — free  from  all  con- 
tamination and  stain,  destined  from  all  eternity  to  en- 
dure, I  have  'the  Right  to  Love.' ): 

She  paused,  a  tremor  coming  over  her,  yet  she  ex- 
tended her  hand. 

"Clara,  here  is  my  hand ;  I  pledge  my  honor,  you  shall 
never  have  cause " 

But  the  other  was  immovable — stone. 

Maithele  did  not  observe  the  good  friend  advancing 
through  the  door  leading  to  the  kitchen ;  she  only  felt  a 
sensation  of  weakness  as  a  strong  arm  encircled  her. 

"I  heard  about  'nough  to  last  'tel  jedgment."  Scott 
looked  severely  upon  Mrs.  Allan.  "The  crowd'll  be 
pushing  in  here  in  two  minutes.  Go  quickly.  Dick 


THE    COSTUME     BALL  261 

Allan" — he  addressed  the  wife — "ain't  here  to  escort  you 
home,  so  I'm  willing  an'  astin'  the  privilege." 

Mrs.  Allan  was  silently  obdurate,  and  Scott  repeated 
the  invitation,  but  she  retorted : 

"I'll  trouble  you  to  mind  your  own  affairs." 

"Can't  do  it,  daughter.  In  war  or  in  peace,  I'm  alwus 
feet  foremost  an'  generally  ahead." 

"Insolent !    Step  aside." 

"What's  thet  ?  Oh,  I  ain't  perticular  about  pussonals 

but "  He  put  his  hand  heavily  upon  her  arm  and 

whispered  something  in  her  ear;  there  was  no  need  to 
whisper ;  Maithele  had  left  the  room. 

"It  is  false — false,"  she  cried;  however,  she  permitted 
herself  to  be  led  off.  The  waltz  was  over,  and  the  throng 
of  merry  people  crowding  the  pavilion. 

Once  outside,  Scott  summoned  an  attendant,  who 
called  her  carriage  and  he  got  in  beside  her. 

"It  ain't  polite  to  envite  yourself  to  see  a  lady  home 
when  she  objects — leastwise  I  don't  think  it's  polite — 
but  I'll  see  you  safely  across.  I'm  fond  of  Dick  an'  I 
don't  mind  looking  after  his  wife  now  and  then." 

And  when  they  were  on  the  other  side  he  was  kind  and 
friendly. 

"  You  ain't  got  to  fear  me  on  thes  subject,  but  you  took 
some  risk,  girl.  Love's  a  great  campaign  an'  if  you  be 
on  the  losing  side  more'n  a  dozen  times,  it's  time  to  quit ; 
leastwise  don't  fall  back  on  reckless  sharpshooting" — 
glancing  at  the  bit  of  steel  visible  in  her  belt — "it's  too 
dangerous." 

She  had  lost,  she  knew  it;  she  made  a  last  move, 
hoping  to  gain  a  small  favor. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  I  came;  don't  tell  Richard.  And 
if  you  see  her,  please  find  her,  tell  her  I  begged  a  favor, 
if  she  will  keep  the  affair— my  identity — secret." 


263  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"  Sure,  girl,  sure ;  trust  her  for  doing  the  right  thing 
to  you;  no  matter  what  you  hev'  done  her.  Good-by," 
he  said  kindly,  and  she  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he 
pressed  it  warmly.  "They  ain't  anything  to  fear  from 
me  or  her,  an'  I'm  sorry  for  you;  if  Dick  was  twins, 
you'd  be  all  right." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
"IT'LL  BE  YOURS  SOME  DAY/' 

THE  hired  conveyance,  with  the  big  gray  horse,  tugged 
up  the  incline,  and  Scott  fell  limp  upon  the  stump  of  an 
ancient  tree,  watching  it  disappear. 

"  Wa'al,"  he  ejaculated,  "thet  might  a-bin  a  putty  nice 
pufformance  if  I  hedn't  stepped  in.  Thet's  the  way 
weth  a  woman ;  give  her  a  firm  holt  of  what  she  art  never 
to  hev'  lied  holt  of,  an'  she'll  hang  on  'tel  jedgment.  Jest 
like  the  bullpup's  sister — alwus  sidling  up  to  Teddy  R — 
an'  they  would  make  about  the  most  unhappy  couple  on 
thes  airth." 

He  stopped  short,  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair, 
damp  at  the  temples  from  overexcitement,  found  a  large 
size  white  handkerchief  with  his  monogram  beautifully 
embroidered  in  the  corner,  and  proceeded  to  mop  his 
brow,  softly  remarking,  "I'm  enterfering  mebbe — weth 
both." 

He  replaced  the  white  affair,  passing  the  subject. 

A  fascinating  scene  it  was  across  the  river — lights, 
music,  merriment.  He  had  never  beheld  anything  like 
it.  The  picture  far  surpassed  his  dream  of  fairyland. 

"Wa'al,  I'll  swan,  if  it  don't  beat  all  creation !  The 
head  Dale's  got  for  ent'tainment !" 

At  Scott's  side  hung  the  splendid  sword,  and,  as  his 
hand  touched  it  his  attention  was  again  diverted  from 
lights  and  beautiful  display  to  himself. 

263 


OUK  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

"Guess  it's  fine  to  be  a  sol-ger,  if  you're  born  to  it,  but 
give  me  a  nice  farm " 

Scott's  musings  were  rudely  disturbed;  lie  sprang  to 
liis  feet  listening  intently.  Far  off  it  seemed,  yet 
unmistakable. 

There  is  no  sound  in  all  the  sounds  that  have  traveled 
down  the  ages,  since  the  First  Man  cried  "Whither, 
whither!"  as  the  gate  of  Eden  closed  upon  him,  so 
paralyzing  to  the  heart,  so  terrifying  to  the  senses  as  the 
cry  of  a  raging  human  storm. 

Scott  dashed  up  the  hill.  Exerting  his  best  speed,  lie 
fairly  flew  in  pursuit  of  the  hired  conveyance.  But  the 
big  gray  horse  had  crossed  the  line  of  mean  disturbance 
and  was  rearing  and  plunging  in  the  throes  of  a 
tumultuous  rout  before  Scott  had  gone  fifty  yards  of  the 
road.  He  accused  himself,  running  all  the  way:  "I 
shouldn't  of  let  her  go  by  herself;  I  shouldn't  hev' 
dun  it." 

They  had  sprung  like  hungry  wolves  from  forest 
deeps,  into  the  open  road — men,  women,  children — with 
savage  faces,  menacing  gestures  and  senseless  words. 

The  small  band  that  tried  to  effect  a  landing,  by  cross- 
ing to  the  island  in  skiffs,  had  been  repulsed  by  the 
guards.  They  tried  the  ferry,  but  pointed  rifles  and  an 
officer  of  the  law  kindly  persuaded  them  to  go  in  peace. 
Again,  possibly  a  half  hour  before  Mrs.  Allan  and  Scott 
came  across,  they  tried  the  domino,  but  the  costume  ball 
strictly  relegated  the  domino. 

A  consultation  followed. 

These  men — not  one  an  American — were  fellows  who 
represent  thirty  cents  a  day  in  their  own  country,  but 
demand  four  times  its  equivalent  in  the  Land  of  Free- 
dom. They  were  men  expert  with  the  knife,  which  they 
flourish  in  the  dark,  or  hurl  from  behind;  they  have 


"IT'LL   BE    YOURS    SOME   DAY."       265 

no  principle,  no  word  not  even  to  their  chief.  They  are 
the  fellows  used  by  the  hotheads  who  bring  disgrace  upon 
unions.  Having  nothing  to  lose,  they  push  forward, 
rending  with  cries  that  not  always  kill,  but  surely  dis- 
turb the  sweet  atmosphere  of  Freedom. 

They  gathered  into  a  knot  one  hour  after  Allan  turned 
his  horse  town- ward. 

It  was  decided  to  attack  the  retreating  guests,  and 
Mrs.  Allan's  carriage  was  the  first  to  pass  the  line. 

The  speed  of  the  big  gray  horse  was  checked  and  angry 
faces  leered  through  the  carriage  window.  The  driver 
was  held  up. 

The  glittering  robe  of  the  lady,  the  splendid  diamond 
necklace  incited  the  cry  against  representative  wealth. 

The  carriage  was  surrounded  and  shots  fired,  but  the 
door  was  not  forced ;  yet,  Avhen  a  line  of  mounted  police, 
cutting  through  the  mob,  slashing  and  firing  right  and 
left,  reached  the  lady,  she  was  in  a  swoon,  and  the  car- 
riage was  filled  with  the  raw  escape  of  discharged  lead. 

Dashing  through  the  line  of  officers,  Allan  reached  the 
carriage,  jumped  from  his  horse,  giving  the  bridle  to  the 
officer  who  galloped  beside  him;  but  the  lieutenant  of 
police  stood  firm,  one  hand  upon  the  carriage  door,  the 
other  uplifted. 

"Too  late,  sir,"  he  cried,  "the  lady  is  dead." 

Allan  thrust  his  head  inside  the  carriage,  and  the  cry 
he  uttered  sent  the  straggling  women  and  children  scur- 
rying to  their  homes. 

The  question  deep  in  Allan's  soul — Why  was  Clara 
there — why  had  she  gone,  and  why  was  she  returning  ?o 
early  ? — vanished,  before  the  more  exacting  answer — She 
is  here — Clara !  Dead !" 

But  Mrs.  Allan  was  not  dead.  In  her  hand,  with  both 
balls  spent,  was  a  small  ivory  handled  pistol.  As  he  tried 


266  OUE  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

to  disengage  the  fingers  from  it,  she  opened  her  eyes, 
sighed. 

"Oh,  Scott,"  cried  Allan,  grasping  the  other's  hand, 
"thank  God  you  are  here!" 

Scott  had  just  come  up,  panting  with  the  long  run, 
and  unable  to  speak. 

Allan  could  not  explain  anything,  but  the  agonized 
expression  of  his  face  revealed  the  tragedy.  His  glance 
far-seeing  crossed  the  river,  resting  deeply  upon  the 
island. 

"Notwithstanding" — he  paused;  Scott  following  his 
glance,  knew  that  it  indicated  Maithele — "I  would  have 
given  my  life  to  have  saved  Clara  from  this." 

Fifty  yards  from  the  road  stood  a  quaint  little  house. 

Carefully  avoiding  rocks  and  ruts,  the  big  gray  horse 
walked  the  way  over  to  the  carriage  gate.  The  drive  led 
through  the  orchard,  around  by  the  nicely  arranged 
flowerbed  to  the  entrance  door  of  the  house — a  short  dis- 
tance, but  the  horse  stumbled  and  Mrs.  Allan  received  a 
jar,  although  nicely  supported  by  her  husband's  strong 
arm.  A  violent  hemorrhage  followed. 

The  people  of  the  house  were  kind  and  hospitable. 

They  lifted  the  semi-conscious  woman  to  the  white  bed 
in  the  neat  little  room  with  its  three  lace-draped 
windows. 

And  Scott,  mounted  on  Allan's  horse,  dashed  back  to 
the  island. 

Mr.  Dale  and  Aunt  Helen  were  discovered  alone,  for 
the  great  throng  were  merry  in  the  supper-room,  and,  as 
good  fortune  would  have  it,  the  family  physician  was 
among  the  guests. 

And  very  wisely,  Mr.  Dale  concluded  to  keep  the  affair 
quiet,  and  so  nicely  was  the  thing  accomplished  that 
guests  returning  to  their  homes  in  town,  hours  later, 


"IT'LL   BE   YOURS    SOME   DAY."        267 

marveled  only  at  the  mounted  force  that  patroled  the 
road. 

And  when  daylight  broke  with  a  glow  of  peace  over  the 
dew-bespent  valley,  the  fairy  scene,  its  wonder  and  en- 
chantment had  dropped  like  a  rose  over  memory's  wall, 
and  the  golden  confession  that  spread  over  the  land  dis- 
pensed absolution  for  the  offence  of  the  night. 

Mrs.  Allan  was  alive,  but  the  physician,  consulting 
with  two  eminent  men  who  arrived  in  the  morning  with 
Mr.  John  E.  Lansing,  decided  that  she  was  beyond  medi- 
cal skill.  She  seemed  wonderfully  courageous,  demand- 
ing to  be  informed.  With  little  more  than  a  frown,  she 
accepted  the  inevitable,  expressing  merely  a  desire  to  see 
her  uncle  alone. 

Mr.  Lansing  remained  an  hour  at  the  bedside  of  his 
niece,  and  when  he  came  forth  again  years  seemed  to 
have  passed  over  him.  Haughtiness,  pride,  was  fallen, 
as  the  sun  upon  the  hilltop  of  a  fair-promise-day  oft  dis- 
appears before  the  sudden  and  awful  mandate  of  shadow 
and  gloom. 

He  walked  over  to  the  beautiful  big  tree  by  the  iron 
pump;  a  bench  was  there  and  a  little  child — reminding 
him  of  Clara  when  he  first  saw  her — played  with  a  long- 
deserted  bird's  nest.  The  tree  was  a  vain  thing,  although 
vanity  in  a  tree  is  strikingly  admired.  It  had  relatives 
here  and  there  through  the  valley,  and  its  whole  family 
is  conspicuous  for  the  manner  in  which  they  hold  to 
green  adornments,  when  all  their  kind  are  on  the 
ragged  edge  of  deep  ochre,  dull  red  and  dark  brown. 

Mr.  Lansing  did  not  give  a  thought  to  the  tree,  but  he 
felt  somehow  that  the  world — the  best  of  it — is  vanity. 
Something  had  crushed — gone  out  of  his  life. 

"Do  you  like  birds,  mister?" 

He  did  not  heed,  but  he  observed  the  child  and  wished 


268  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

rather  that  she  would  rim  away ;  but  the  shade  of  the  big 
tree  was  the  child's  playground. 

"Say,  mister,  is  they  any  sparrows  in  your  town?" 

Still  he  was  silent. 

She  fingered  the  nest,  endeavored  to  gain  his  atten- 
tion and  with  some  persistence  ventured  again : 

"I  wish  sparrows  was  all  dead." 

Lansing  turned  sharply  upon  her. 

"Why?" 

"Because  they  is  the  greediest  things  in  the  world." 

"The  world?"  He  addressed  the  child  emphatically, 
but  she  did  not  understand :  "There  is  nothing  in  the 
world;  it  is  only  the  sparrows  that  amuse  one." 

His  eyes  were  upon  the  top  branches  of  the  tree,  and 
the  child  beheld  him  with  knitted  brows.  She  had  more 
to  say  about  sparrows,  but  Lansing  had  deeper  thoughts 
that  troubled  him.  Presently  the  child  walked  off — re- 
marking to  the  nest,  saucily,  "Guess  he  never  put  his 
cake  down  wher'  sparrows  could  git  it." 

Delicacies  of  every  description  were  conveyed  across 
the  river.  They  were  hardly  noticed,  save  by  the  little 
sparrow  who  complained  of  other  sparrows  in  the  great 
world. 

Dorothy  came  the  moment  the  guests  departed,  and 
the  Toreador,  the  picture  of  distress  in  citizen's  garb,  re- 
mained over,  hoping  to  be  of  service.  He  fairly  consti- 
tuted himself  messenger  to  Dorothy's  lightest  bidding. 
He  was  passing  through  the  hall  of  the  little  house,  a 
great  bouquet  of  long-stemmed  roses  in  one  hand  and  a 
crystal  vase  in  the  other,  as  Lansing  accosted  him. 

"You  are  very  kind  to  my  niece,  very  kind — every  one 
of  you." 

"A  pleasure  to  be  of  some  small  service,  our  sym 

The  stern  voice  cut  him  short. 


"IT'LL   BE    YOURS    SOME    DAY."        269 

"The  road — is  it  in  order — to — to  the  ferry?  And, 
how  may  I  reach  it  ?" 

"I  will  walk  the  distance  if  you  care  to  go  over  the 
ground." 

"Thank  you;  not  at  present." 

Lawrence  gave  the  simple  direction,  and  the  old  gen- 
tleman turned  abruptly,  went  outside,  and  began  pacing 
to  and  fro  in  the  orchard.  After  a  little,  as  if  a  sudden 
resolve  possessed  him,  he  stalked  off  warily,  taking  the 
road  to  the  ferry. 

To  follow  the  stricken  one  to  the  water's  edge  would 
be  anticipating  beyond  his  own  thought. 

The  storm  of  discovery  comes  with  a  rush,  the  heart 
and  brain  either  weakly  cower  or  defiantly  meet  the  first 
awful  force.  Only  when  the  storm  has  spent  itself  is 
calm  restored,  heart  and  brain  reach  the  normal  state, 
and  thought  a  definite  conclusion. 

The  pedestrian  had  not  arrived  at  this  apex.  The 
storm  of  discovery  was  still  in  his  path  and  the  shrieking 
of  its  winds  brought  upon  his  dulled  senses  a  faint  awak- 
ening cry,  produced  by  the  far-sobbing  of  a  violin.  The 
music  disturbed  him  at  first.  Was  pleasure  lurking  in 
the  hills,  and  Clara  dying?  But  as  he  listened,  coming 
up  the  narrow  path  to  the  house,  he  recognized  the  utter 
absence  of  gayety  in  the  pleading  cry. 

Lansing  felt  intensely  bitter.  It  required  all  his  self- 
control  to  meet  this  girl  and  to  speak  to  her  quietly,  as 
he  had  been  bidden  to  do,  and  yet,  when  she  came  to  him 
as  he  waited  in  the  reception-room,  both  hands  extended 
and  eyes  overflowing,  he  recognized  a  sorrow  as  deep  as 
his  own. 

An  hour  later  Mr.  Lansing  was  again  at  the  gate  of 
the  house  near  the  road,  and  she  beside  him,  enveloped  in 
a  long,  gray  coat. 


270  OUK  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

Roses  seemed  never  to  have  bloomed  in  her  cheeks,  and 
dark  rings  under  the  eyes  brought  pathetically  into  prom- 
inence the  great  charm  of  her  singular  beauty.  As  she 
mounted  the  steps  of  the  house,  Lansing  lifted  his  hat 
and  disappeared. 

Dorothy  came  forward.  Maithele  was  completely  un- 
strung and  vacillating  slightly. 

"Who  dared!"  cried  Dorothy. 

"Sh— !"  Maithele's  finger  touched  her  lips.  "She 
asked  for  me." 

Straight  they  went  to  the  room  with  the  three  win- 
dows, lace-draped  and  sweet  with  Brideroses  adorning 
the  mantel.  Mrs.  Allan  reclined  in  the  center  of  the  bed, 
her  head  propped  high,  and  eyes  fixed  upon  the  intruders. 

Maithele  went  softly  down  upon  her  knees. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  miserable  about  it  all !" 

Mrs.  Allan  lifted  a  white  hand  from  the  counterpane 
and  rested  it  upon  the  other's  arm. 

"Look  at  me!"  Maithele  lifted  her  face  obediently, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  dying  one  was  marking 
every  lineament,  as  if  she  meant  to  carry  her  countenance 
into  the  Great  Beyond. 

"Remove  the  coat,"  ordered  Mrs.  Allan. 

But  the  coat  could  not  be  removed  by  an  imperious 
order;  the  clasp  had  tangled  with  a  slender  cord,  and 
Dorothy  came  to  the  rescue. 

As  it  dropped  to  the  floor,  Maithele  apologized,  remov- 
ing the  white  duck  cap.  "I  did  not  take  time  to " 

"You  will  do,"  said  the  dying  one. 

The  white  serge  was  simplicity  itself;  the  apology  was 
for  the  cut  of  the  gown,  which,  being  a  trifle  low,  dis- 
played the  throat  and  to  Maithele  seemed  frivolous, 
hardly  in  keeping  with  the  solemn  occasion.  She  had 
not  considered  her  attire.  Mr.  Lansing  begged  her  to 


"IT'LL   BE    YOURS    SOME   DAY."        271 

please  not  delay,  and  she  snatched  the  coat  and  cap  from 
the  rack  and  hurried  off  with  him. 

"Mr.  Allan  is  outside,"  answered  Dorothy,  to  the 
wife's  question. 

"Send  him  to  us." 

"Oh,  please — please,"  softly  pleaded  Maithele  upon 
her  knees,  but  Dorothy  passed  out. 

"I  cannot  bear  it,"  Maithele  went  on,  and  as  Dorothy 
left  the  room,  she  continued:  "I "am  so  sorry  for  this; 
I  never  did  you  a  single  unkind  act !" 

"I  meant  you — harm,"  spoke  the  wife.  "I  should — 
have  killed  you  last — night — I  was  a  fool !" 

"Oh,  do  not  say  it;  I  will  not  let  you;  you  thought 
you  had  cause " 

The  door  opened.    Allan  came  into  the  room. 

Maithele  did  not  look  up,  and  he  went  straight  to 
Mrs.  Allan. 

"You  sent  for  me?" 

The  voice  was  kind  and  low. 

She  did  not  speak  at  once;  she  seemed  to  have  ex- 
hausted her  strength;  the  eyes  closed,  then  opened 
sharply  upon  the  kneeling  figure,  finally  addressing 
Allan: 

"Yes,  I  sent  for  you — I — never  knew  you  to  do  my — 
my — bidding  so  promptly." 

Silence  followed — a  long  silence.  Mrs.  Allan's  eyes 
traveled  about  the  room,  noting  its  every  detail.  She 
seemed  satisfied  that  they  were  alone. 

The  sun  was  passing  Dial  Rock.  But  shadows  were 
in  the  room,  and  the  silence  grew  strangely  ominous. 

The  wife  did  not  speak  for  several  moments,  and  with 
eyes  closed  she  seemed  to  have  fallen  into  a  doze.  Allan 
walked  over  to  the  window ;  leaned  against  it,  and  as  he 


272  OUR  EIGHT  TO  LOVE 

did  so  he  caught  the  sound  of  a  team  on  the  dirt  road, 
the  crack  of  a  whip  and  the  snatch  of  a  song. 

Ah,  the  contumely  of  life ! 

The  wife's  eyes  were  wide.  The  noise  of  the  world  was 
nothing  to  her  now. 

"I  have  been  thinking — thinking  of  everything " 

"Yes,  Clara,"  said  Allan,  coming  over  to  the  bed,  "but 
what  you  need  now  is  rest." 

The  lower  lip  drooped  with  the  downward  curve  which 
always  announced  sarcasm,  but  she  only  repeated — 
"Rest!" 

He  came  nearer  as  she  spoke  again : 

"You  never,  never  loved  me." 

"Clara" — he  spoke  in  a  whisper — "I  am  to  blame  for 
much;  I  ask  your  forgiveness." 

She  reached  out  her  hand. 

"We  would  never — never  have  been  happy." 

He  dared  not  trust  his  voice,  and  she  continued : 

"  I  hate  everybody ;  I  hate  my  parents — why  did  they 
— let  me  go — I  hate  my  uncle — I  told  him " 

"Oh,  no!  Do  not  accuse  yourself  so  bitterly,"  cried 
Maithele  softly. 

The  lips  of  the  dying  one  were  ashen  and  the  face 
slightly  inclined  to  Maithele. 

"I  am  not  sure" — the  fingers  clutched — "I  could  hate 
you  again." 

Maithele  shivered.  She  could  not  speak,  but  she 
stroked  the  hand. 

After  moments  of  silence  she  continued : 

"Last  night" — the  voice  came  in  whispers — "you  said 
it — it  is  true — you — have — the  Right  to  Love." 

And  like  that  twilight  that  invites  the  last  repose,  a 
mist  came  over  her  eyes,  and  her  head  swayed  from  side 
to  side.  Presently  she  jerked  convulsively. 


"IT'LL    BE    YOURS    SOME    DAY."        273 

"Light  the  lamp,  quick;    I  hate  darkness." 

Then  some  one  tapped;  Allan  went  forward,  opened 
the  door,  and  a  long  shaft  of  yellow  glory  shot  into  the 
room,  and  in  the  very  center  of  it  stood  Mrs.  Scott. 

Her  eyes  went  tenderly  up  to  Allan,  then  fell  upon 
Maithele.  He  understood. 

Very  gently  he  assisted  the  kneeling  girl  to  her  feet, 
lifted  the  gray  coat  from  the  floor,  and  arranged  it  ten- 
derly about  her  shoulders. 

And  Mrs.  Scott  led  her  from  the  room;  hut  ere  the 
door  closed  Maithele  turned  her  eyes  tenderly  to  the  bed. 

"Good-by,"  she  whispered.  The  dying  one  did  not 
respond  and  Maithele  returned  to  the  bedside ;  lifting  the 
hand  upon  the  counterpane  she  kissed  it.  "Good-by, 
Clara," 

The  new  carriage  was  waiting  outside,  with  the  new 
coachman  on  the  box. 

"We  won't  miss  you  for  a  day  or  two,"  said  Dorothy. 
And  Lawrence,  coming  up,  took  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Scott, 
turning  with  warmth  to  the  other : 

"Dear  little  sister." 

But  Maithele  could  not  find  a  word.     ' 

And  as  Old  Sorrel  took  his  nicest  gait,  Mrs.  Scott  re- 
marked, placidly: 

"I'm  sorry,  sorry  for  everyboddie,  but  me  an'  Si  feels 
some  to  blame  in  thes  affair." 

Maithele  turned  her  eyes  from  the  sunset  glory  flood- 
ing hill  and  vale.  Mrs.  Scott  was  saying  strange  things. 

"We  were  to  blame,"  she  repeated.  "We  were  old  an' 
art  to  hev'  bed  more  jedgment.  You  art  to  hev'  bin  took 
abroad  before  the  trouble  started  an'  he  art  a-bin  kid- 
napped. There's  nothing  going  to  happen  next  time ;  we 
hev'  hed  our  exp'rience." 

They  were  passing  the  duck-pond  and  Maithele  gazed 


274  OUR  RIGHT  TO  LOVE 

with  unseeing  eyes.  And  when  the  miner's  settlement 
was  far  behind  she  looked  back,  but  the  beautiful 
Lechaw-Hanna  was  lost — lost  in  repose  beyond  the  low- 
ering magnificence  of  Dial  Rock. 

"Si  hes  got  his  eye  on  thet  island.  If  11  be  yours  some 
day." 

But  Maithele  did  not  hear.  She  was  watching  a  great 
violet  veil  that  hung  immediately  over  the  Michaelite 
loveliness  of  the  valley. 

Just  as  old  Sorrel  turned  into  the  road  that  led  to  the 
little  low  gate,  Mrs.  Scott's  delightful  volubility  again 
broke  forth: 

"For  ent'tainment  and  deversion,  give  me  dogs.  It's 
about  all  they  air  good  for.  An'  mark  me,  if  Si  Scott 
ain't  got  all  the  hull  bunch  out  at  the  front  gate  waiting 
to  receive  us,  I'll  give  up." 

Scott  was  waiting — the  dogs  were  not  far. 

And  Maithele  smiled  through  her  tears. 


TUB  END. 


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